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EIGHT-BOOK   SERIES 


BROOKS'S  READERS 


EIGHTH  YEAR 


BY 


STRATTON    D.    BROOKS 


SUPERINTENDENT    OF    SCHOOLS,    BOSTON,    MASSACHUSETTS 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  ■:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1906,  bt 

AMERICAN   BOOK   COMPANY 

Copyright,  1907,  Tokyo. 


BB00K8  A    RBADERB.      EIOHTU    YKAX. 

e-  P     5 


CONTENTS 

Books 

.     John  Ruskin 

PAGE 

9 

My  Brute  Neighbors 

.     Henry  D.  Thoreau     . 

14 

September  Days 

.     George  Arnold  . 

21 

Autumn's  Mirth 

.     Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

22 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 

.     William  Shakespeare 

23 

The  High  Court  of  Inquiry 

.     J.  G.  Holland    . 

24 

Moses  goes  to  the  Fair 

.     Oliver  Goldsmith 

31 

A  Legend  of  Bregenz 

.     Adelaide  Procter 

36 

Parables     .... 

Benjamin  Franklin  . 

43 

Nobility      .... 

.     Alice  Cary 

47 

Tact  and  Talent 

.     From '■'■  London  Atlas" 

48 

The  Man  without  a  Country 

Edward  Everett  Hale 

51 

The  Battle  of  Lexington  . 

.     George  Bancroft 

63 

Lexington  .... 

.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

67 

The  Bell  of  Liberty  . 

.     J.  T.  Headley    . 

69 

The  Rising  in  1776    . 

T.  Buchanan  Read    . 

73 

Raleigh  and  Queen  Elizabeth 

.     Sir  Walter  Scott 

77 

Silas  Marner  and  Eppie     . 

.     George  Eliot 

83 

The  Bell  of  Atri 

.     H.  W.  Longfellow 

93 

The  Mocking  Bird     . 

.     Alexander  Wilson     . 

98 

The  Water  Ouzel       . 

.     John  Muir 

102 

The  Daffodils     . 

.     William  Wordsworth 

107 

Where  lies  the  Land  ? 

.     Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

108 

The  Czar  and  the  Angel    . 

.     "  Cossack  Fairy  Tales  " 

109 

The  Sea  Voyage 

.     Charles  Lamb    . 

120 

'riu»  Lesatin  of  the  Ffiii 

Oliver  (ioKlsiiiitli 

'I'lie  Village  of  Aulnini 

The  Village  Preaolier 

The  Vilia^e  Sohooliiia.sUM 

A  (Jreat  IMiilosopher 

The  Storv  oi  Lafayett^^ 

Tlip  Aiiierii-aii  Flay,   . 

Liberty  aiul  Inidii     . 

Patriotism 

What  makes  a  Nation? 

The  Cheerful  Locksmith 

The  Lost  Child.  An  Australian 

Ilerve  Kiel 

The  Story  of  my  Boyhood 

Douglas  and  Marmion 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 

Among  the  Icebergs  . 

Passing  the  Icebergs . 

Rip  Van  Winkle 

The  Bells  . 

Little  Gavroche 

Oration  of  Mark  Antony 

A  Day  in  June  . 

Speech  and  Silence    . 

Opportunity 

The  Mystery  of  Life  . 

Over  the  Hill     . 

The  Sun  is  Down 

Finale 

Appendix 


Story 


I>*«K 

Miiri/  L.  Holies  Branch 

lL'7 

WiUium  M.  Thackeraij 

.      ILM) 

Oliver  Uoldsmith 

i:Jl 

Olirer  Goldsmith 

.     !;]•_' 

Oliver  Golibinilh 

.     185 

Charles  Morris 

136 

Alma  Ilolman  Burton 

.     141 

./.  l}(id)nan  Drake 

153 

Daniel  Webster 

154 

George  William  Curtis 

15(5 

W.  D.  Neshit    . 

158 

Charles  Dickens 

.     159 

Henry  Kingsley 

161 

Robert  Browning 

170 

Hans  Christian  Andersen 

177 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

186 

Robert  Southeg  . 

189 

Charles  Wolfe  . 

192 

Walter  A .  Wyckoff  . 

193 

T.  Buchanan  Read   . 

201 

Washington  Irving     . 

204 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

210 

Victor  Hugo 

213 

William  Shakespeare 

225 

James  Russell  Lowell 

230 

Thomas  Carlyle 

233 

Edivard  Rowland  Sill 

235 

John  Ruskin 

236 

George  Macdonald    . 

239 

Joanna  Bailiie  . 

240 

William  M.  Thackeray 

240 

•         •         •         • 

241 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  selections  from  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 
Henry  D.  Thoreau,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Alice  Gary, 
and  James  Russell  Lowell  are  used  by  permission  of,  and 
special  arrangement  with,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the 
authorized  publishers  of  the  works  of  those  authors. 

Acknowledgments  for  the  use  of  copyright  matter  are 
also  extended  to  publishers  and  authors  as  follows  :  To 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  for  the  selection  from  J.  G.  Hol- 
land's "Arthur  Bonnicastle ";  to  John  Muir,  for  the 
extract  from  his  work  on  "■  The  Mountains  of  California  "; 
to  Walter  A.  Wyckoff,  for  the  selection  entitled  "  Among 
the  Icebergs";  to  Samuel  Minturn  Peck,  for  his  poem 
"Autumn's  Mirth";  and  to  Alma  Holman  Burton  for 
the  adaptation  of  her  "Story  of  Lafayette." 

Acknowledgments  are  also  due  to  Mr.  W.  J.  Button  of 
Chicago  for  valuable  assistance  rendered  in  connection 
with  the  preparation  of  this  volume. 


^^^^^^^^H>  '^■^1 

^^^^^  1        ^^^^^^^^Hu                                    a^^^l 

^^^^^^H^^^^^^^^^^^^^HBr                          '^^^I^^^^^^^H^\'       \  ^^^&         '-'''' r^'^^lfii^^^^H 

^^^^^^^^^^■j^^ligl^^^MHMngl^lj^nflL;'     ^^HI^^^^H 

A    LOVER    OF    BOOKS. 


BOOKS 

All  books  may  be  divided  into  two  classes,  —  books 
of  tlie  hour,  and  books  of  all  time.  Yet  it  is  not 
merely  the  bad  book  that  does  not  last,  and  the  good 
one  that  does.  There  are  good  books  for  the  hour 
and  good  ones  for  all  time ;  bad  books  for  the 
hour  and  bad  ones  for  all  time.  I  must  define  the 
two  kinds  before  I  go  on. 

The  good  book  of  the  hour,  then,  —  I  do  not  speak 
of  the  bad  ones,  —  is  simply  the  useful  or  pleasant 
talk  of  some  person  printed  for  you.  Very  useful 
often,  telling  you  what  you  need  to  know ;  very 
pleasant  often,  as  sensible  friends'  present  talk  would 
be.  These  bright  accounts  of  travels,  good-humored 
and  witty  discussions  of  question,  lively  or  pathetic 
story-telling  in  the  form  of  novel,  firm  fact-telling — 
all  these  books  of  the  hour  are  the  peculiar  possession 
of  the  present  age.  We  ought  to  be  entirely  thank- 
ful for  them,  and  entirely  ashamed  of  ourselves  if  we 
make  no  good  use  of  them.  But  we  make  the  worst 
possible  use,  if  we  allow  them  to  usurp  the  place  of 
true  books ;  for,  strictly  speaking,  they  are  not  books 
at  all,  but  merely  letters  or  newspapers  in  good  print. 


10 

Our  friend's  letter  may  be  deliglitfiil,  or  necessary, 
to-day  ;  whether  worth  keeping;  or  not.,  is  to  be  con- 
sidered. The  newspaper  may  be  entirely  proper  at 
breakfast  time,  l)iit  it  is  not  reading  for  all  day.  So, 
thoULch  bound  up  in  a  volume,  the  long  letter  which 
gives  you  so  pleasant  an  account  of  the  inns  and 
roads  and  weather  last  year  at  such  a  place,  or  wliicli 
tells  you  that  amusing  stor}^^  or  relates  such  and  such 
cu'cumstances  of  interest,  may  not  be,  in  the  real 
sense  of  the  word,  a  "book  "  at  all,  nor,  in  the  real 
sense,  to  be  ''  read." 

A  book  is  not  a  talked  thing,  but  a  written  thing. 
The  book  of  talk  is  printed  only  because  its  author 
cannot  speak  to  thousands  of  people  at  once;  if  he 
could,  he  would  —  the  volume  is  mere  multiplication 
of  the  voice.  You  cannot  talk  to  your  friend  in 
India  ;  if  you  could,  you  would ;  you  write  instead : 
that  is  merely  a  way  of  carrying  the  voice.  But  a 
book  is  written,  not  to  multiply  the  voice  merely,  not 
to  carry  it  merely,  but  to  preserve  it.  The  author 
has  something  to  say  which  he  perceives  to  be  true 
and  useful,  or  helpfully  beautiful.  So  far  as  he 
knows,  no  one  has  yet  said  it ;  so  far  as  he  knows,  no 
one  can  say  it.  He  is  bound  to  say  it,  clearly  and  in 
a  melodious  manner  if  he  may ;  clearly,  at  all  events. 

In  the  sum  of  his  life  he  finds  this  to  be  the  thing, 
or  group  of  things,  manifest  to  him ;  this  the  piece  of 


11 

true  knowledge,  or  sight,  which  his  share  of  sunshine 
and  earth  has  allowed  him  to  seize.  He  would  set  it 
down  forever ;  carve  it  on  a  rock,  if  he  could,  saying, 
"  This  is  the  best  of  me  ;  for  the  rest,  I  ate  and  drank 
and  slept,  loved  and  hated,  like  another ;  my  life 
was  as  the  vapor,  and  is  not ;  but  this  I  saw  and 
knew :  this,  if  anything  of  mine,  is  worth  your 
memory."     That  is  his  "  writing  "  ;  that  is  a  "  book." 

Now  books  of  this  kind  have  been  written  in  all 
ages  by  their  greatest  men  —  by  great  leaders,  great 
statesmen,  great  thinkers.  These  are  all  at  your 
choice;  and  life  is  short.  You  have  heard  as  much 
before  ;  yet  have  you  measured  and  mapped  out  this 
short  life  and  its  possibilities  ?  Do  you  know,  if  you 
read  this,  that  you  cannot  read  that  —  that  what  you 
lose  to-day  you  cannot  gain  to-morrow? 

Will  you  go  and  gossip  with  the  housemaid,  or  the 
stable  boy,  when  you  may  talk  with,  queens  and  kings? 
Do  you  ask  to  be  the  companion  of  nobles  ?  Make 
yourself  noble,  and  you  shall  be.  Do  you  long  for 
the  conversation  of  the  wise  ?  Learn  to  understand 
it  and  you  shall  hear  it.  But  on  other  terms  ?  —  no. 
If  you  will  not  rise  to  them,  they  cannot  stoop  to 
you. 

Very  ready  we  are  to  say  of  a  book,  "  How  good 
this  is  —  that  is  just  what  I  think  !  "  But  the  right 
feeling  is,  ''  How  strange  that  is  !     I  never  thought 


12 

(if  tliat  before,  and  vet  I  see  it  is  true  ;  or  if  I  do  not 
now,  I  hope  1  shall  some  day."  But  whether  you 
feel  thus  or  not,  at  least  be  sure  that  you  go  to  the 
autiior  to  get  at  /lis  meaning,  not  to  find  yours.  And 
be  siu-e  also,  if  the  author  is  worth  anything,  that 
you  will  not  get  at  his  meaning  all  at  once ;  nay, 
that  at  his  whole  meaning  you  may  not  for  a  long 
time  arrive  in  any  wise.  Not  that  he  does  not  say 
what  he  means,  and  in  strong  words  too ;  but  he 
cannot  say  it  all,  and,  what  is  more  strange,  will  not, 
but  in  a  hidden  way  in  order  that  he  may  be  sure  you 
want  it. 

When,  therefore,  you  come  to  a  good  book,  you 
must  ask  yourself,  "  Am  I  ready  to  work  as  an 
Australian  miner  would  ?  Are  my  pickaxes  in  good 
order,  and  am  I  in  good  trim  myself,  my  sleeves  well 
up  to  the  elbow,  and  my  breath  good,  and  my 
temper?"  For  your  pickaxes  are  your  own  care, 
wit,  and  learning ;  your  smelting  furnace  is  your 
own  thoughtful  soul.  Do  not  hope  to  get  at  any 
good  author's  meaning  without  these  tools  and  that 
fire ;  often  you  will  need  sharpest,  finest  carving, 
and  the  most  careful  melting,  before  you  can  gather 
one  grain  of  the  precious  gold.  .  .  . 

I  cannot,  of  course,  tell  you  what  to  choose  for 
your  library,  for  every  several  mind  needs  different 
books ;  but  there  are  some  books  which  we  all  need, 


13 

and  which  if  you  read  as  much  as  you  ought,  you 
will  not  need  to  have  your  shelves  enlarged  to  right 
and  left  for  purposes  of  study. 

If  you  want  to  understand  any  subject  whatever, 
read  the  best  book  upon  it  you  can  hear  of. 

A  common  book  will  often  give  you  amusement, 
but  it  is  only  a  noble  book  which  will  give  you 
dear  friends.  .  .  . 

Avoid  that  class  of  literature  which  has  a  knowing 
tone ;  it  is  the  most  poisonous  of  all. 

Every  good  book,  or  piece  of  book,  is  full  of 
admiration  and  awe;  and  it  always  leads  3^ou  to 
reverence  or  love  something  with  your  whole  heart. 

It  may  become  necessary  for  you,  as  you  advance 
in  life,  to  set  your  hand  to  things  that  need  to  be 
altered  in  the  world ;  but  for  a  young  person  the 
safest  temper  is  one  of  reverence,  and  the  safest  place 
one  of  obscurity. 

Certainly  at  present,  and  perhaps  through  all  your 
life,  your  teachers  are  wisest  when  they  make  you 
content  in  quiet  virtue ;  and  that  literature  and  art 
are  best  for  you  which  point  out  in  common  life  and 
familiar  things  the  objects  for  hopeful  labor  and  for 
humble  love. 

—  John  Kuskin, 


14 


MV    HKUTE    NEIGHBORS 

The  uucv  whicli  liamitcd  m\  liouse  were  not  the 
coiimuMi  ttiu's,  \vlii(;li  arc  said  to  liave  been  introduced 
into  the  CDiintry,  l)ut  a  wild  native  i<ind  not  found 
in  the  village.  Wiien  1  was  building,  one  of  these 
hail  its  nest  underneath  the  house,  and  before  J  had 
laid  the  second  floor  and  swept  out  the  shavings, 
would  eonie  out  regularly  at  lunch  time  and  pick 
up  the  eriuuhs  at  my  feet.  It  probably  had  never 
seen  a  man  before  ;  and  it  soon  became  quite  familiar 
and  would  run  over  my  shoes  and  up  my  clothes.  It 
could  readily  ascend  the  sides  of  the  room  by  short 
impulses,  like  the  squirrel,  which  it  resembled  in  its 
motions. 

At  length,  as  I  leaned  with  my  elbow  on  the 
bench  one  day,  it  ran  up  my  clothes  and  along  my 
sleeve  and  round  and  round  the  paper  which  held 
my  dinner,  while  I  kept  the  latter  closed,  and  dodged 
and  placed  at  bopeep  with  it ;  and  when  at  last  I 
held  still  a  piece  of  cheese  between  my  thumb  and 
finger,  it  came  and  nibbled  it,  sitting  in  my  hand,  and 
afterwards  cleaned  its  face  and  paws,  like  a  fly, 
and  walked  away. 

A  phoebe  soon  built  in  my  shed,  and  a  robin  for 
protection  in  a  pine  which  grew  against  the  house. 
In  June  the  partridge,  which  is  so  shy  a  bird,  led  her 


15 


brood  past  my  windows,  from  the  woods  in  the  rear 
to  the  front  of  my  house,  clucking  and  calhng  to 
them  hke  a  hen,  and  in  all  her  behavior  proving 
herself  the  hen  of  the  woods.  The  young  suddenly 
disperse  on  3^our  approach, 
at  a  signal  from  the  mother, 
as  if  a  whirlwind  had  swept 
them  away,  and  they  so  ex- 
actly resemble  the  dried 
leaves  and  twigs,  that  many 
a  traveler  has  placed  his 
foot  in  the  midst  of  a  brood 
and  heard  the  whir  of  the 
old  bird  as  she  flew  off  and 

her  anxious  calls  and  niewing,  or  seen  her  trail  her 
wings  to  attract  his  attention,  without  suspecting 
their  neighborhood. 

The  parent  will  sometimes  roll  and  spin  around 
before  you  in  such  a  deshabille  that  you  cannot,  for  a 
few  moments,  detect  wdiat  kind  of  creature  it  is. 
The  young  squat  still  and  flat,  often  running  their 
heads  under  a  leaf,  and  mind  only  their  mother's 
directions  given  from  a  distance,  nor  will  your  ap- 
proach make  them  run  again  and  betray  themselves. 
You  may  even  tread  on  them,  or  have  your  eyes  on 
them  for  a  minute,  without  discovering  them.  I  have 
held  them  in  my  open  hand  at  such  a  time,  and  still 


16 

tlu'ir  (>nly  oaro,  olnnlient  to  tlioir  mother  and  their  in- 
stinrt,  was  to  squat  thrrc  without  fear  oi-  trt'uibhng. 

So  jK'rl\'ct  is  tliis  instinct,  tliat  once,  when  I  laid 
them  on  the  leaves  as:;ain,  and  one  accidentally  fell 
on  its  side,  it  was  found  with  the  rest  in  exactly  the 
same  position  ten  minutes  afterwards.  They  are  not 
callow  like  the  young  of  most  hirds,  but  more  per- 
frctly  develo})ed  and  precocious  even  than  chickens. 
The  remarkably  adult  yet  innocent  expression  of 
their  open  and  serene  eyes  is  very  memorable.  All 
intelligence  seems  reflected  in  them.  They  suggest 
not  merely  the  purity  of  infancy,  but  a  wisdom  clari- 
fied by  experience.  Such  an  eye  was  not  born  when 
the  bird  was,  but  is  coeval  with  the  sky  it  reflects. 
The  woods  do  not  yield  another  such  a  gem.  The 
traveler  does  not  often  look  into  such  a  limpid  well. 

The  ignorant  or  reckless  sportsman  often  shoots 
the  parent  at  such  a  time,  and  leaves  these  innocents 
to  fall  a  prey  to  some  prowling  beast  or  bird,  or 
gradually  mingle  with  the  decaying  leaves  which 
they  so  much  resemble.  It  is  said  that  when  hatched 
by  a  hen  they  will  directly  disperse  on  some  alarm, 
and  so  are  lost,  for  they  never  hear  the  mother's  call 
which  gathers  them  again.  These  were  my  hens  and 
chickens. 

It  is  remarkable  how  many  creatures  live  wild  and 
free   though  secret   in  the  woods  and  still    sustain 


17 

themselves  in  the  neighborhood  of  towns,  suspected 
by  hunters  only.  How  retired  the  otter  manages 
to  live  here  !  He 
grows  to  be  four 
feet  long,  as  big  as 
a  small  boy,  per- 
haps without  any 
human  being  get- 
ting a  glimpse  of 
him.  I  formerly 
saw  the  raccoon  in 
the  woods  behind 
where  my  house  is 

built,  and  probably  still  hear  their  whinnering  at  night. 
Commonly  I  rested  an  hour  or  two  in  the  shade 
at  noon,  after  planting,  and  ate  my  lunch  and  read 
a  little  by  a  spring,  which  was  the  source  of  a  swamp 
and  of  a  brook.  The  approach  to  this  was  through 
a  succession  of  descending  grassy  hollows,  full  of 
young  pitch  pines,  into  a  larger  wood  about  the 
swamp.  There,  in  a  very  secluded  and  shaded  spot, 
under  a  spreading  white  pine,  was  yet  a  clean,  firm 
sward  to  sit  on.  I  had  dug  out  the  spring  and  made 
a  well  of  clear,  gray  water,  where  I  could  dip  up  a 
pailful  without  roiling  it,  and  thither  I  went  for  this 
purpose  almost  every  day  in  midsummer,  when  the 
'pond  was  warmest. 

VIII.  —2 


18 

Tliither,  too.  tlu»  woodcock  K'd  her  brood,  to  probe 
tlu'  mud  toi-  worms,  llviiii!;  Imt  a  foot  above  them 
down  the  Itank,  while  they  rail  in  a  troop  beneath  ; 
hut  ;it  hist,  spyiug  me,  slie  would  leave  her  young 
and  circle  round  and  round  me,  nearer  and  nearer, 
till  within  four  or  live  feet,  pretending  broken  wings 
and  legs,  to  attract  my  attention  and  get  off  her 
young,  who  would  have  already  taken  up  their 
march,  with  faint,  wiry  peep,  single  file  through  the 
swamp  as  she  directed.  Or  I  heard  the  peep  of  the 
young  when  I  could  not  see  the  parent  bird. 

There,  too,  the  turtle  doves  sat  over  the  spring,  or 
fluttered  from  bough  to  bough  of  the  soft  white  pines 
over  my  head  ;  or  the  red  squirrel,  coursing  down 
the  nearest  bough,  was  particularly  familiar  and 
inquisitive.  You  only  need  sit  still  long  enough  in 
some  attractive  spot  in  the  woods,  that  all  its  inhabit- 
ants may  exhibit  themselves  to  you  by  turns. 

I  was  witness  to  events  of  a  less  peaceful  charac- 
ter. One  day  when  I  went  out  to  my  woodpile,  or 
rather  my  pile  of  stumps,  I  observed  two  large  ants, 
the  one  red,  and  the  other  much  larger,  nearly  half 
an  inch  long,  and  black,  fiercely  contending  with 
each  other.  Having  once  got  hold,  they  never  let 
go,  but  struggled  and  wrestled  and  rolled  on  the 
chips  incessantly.  Looking  farther,  I  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  chips  were  covered  with  such  com-' 


19 

batants ;  that  it  was  not  a  duellum,  but  a  helium,  — 
a  war  between  two  races  of  ants,  the  red  always 
pitted  against  the  black,  and  frequently  two  red  ones 
to  one  black.  The  legions  of  these  Myrmidons 
covered  all  the  hills  and  vales  in  my  woody ard,  and 
the  ground  was  already  strewn  with  the  dead  and 
the  dying,  both  red  and  black. 

I  watched  a  couple  that  were  fast  locked  in  each 
other's  embraces,  in  a  little  sunny  valley  amid  the 
chips,  now  at  noonday  prepared  to  fight  till  the  sun 
went  down,  or  life  went  out.  The  smaller  red  cham- 
pion had  fastened  himself  like  a  vise  to  his  adver- 
sary's front,  and  through  all  the  tumbling  on  that 
field  never  for  an  instant  ceased  to  gnaw  at  one  of 
his  feelers  near  the  root,  having  already  caused  the 
other  to  go  by  the  board  ;  while  the  stronger  black 
one  dashed  him  from  side  to  side,  and,  as  I  saw  on 
looking  nearer,"  had  already  divested  him  of  several 
of  his  members.  They  fought  with  more  pertinacity 
than  bulldogs.  Neither  manifested  the  least  dis- 
position to  retreat.  It  was  evident  that  their  battle 
cry  was  "  Conquer  or  die." 

In  the  meanwhile  there  came  along  a  single  red 
ant  on  the  hillside  of  this  valley,  evidently  full  of 
excitement,  who  either  had  dispatched  his  foe,  or  had 
not  yet  taken  part  in  the  battle  —  probably  the  latter, 
for  he  had  lost  none  of  his  limbs  —  whose  mother 


20 

liail  cliartTcil  liiiii  to  rcdirn  irith  liis  shield  or  upon 
it.  Or,  perchance,  lie  was  somo  Achilles,  who  had 
iiourislicil  his  wratii  apart,  and  had  now  come  to 
avenge  or  rescue  his  Patrocliis. 

lie  saw  this  unequal  combat  afar — for  the  blacks 
were  nearly  twice  the  size  of  the  reds  —  he  drew 
near  with  rapid  pace  till  he  stood  on  his  guard  within 
half  an  inch  of  the  combatants;  then,  watching  his 
u})}H)rtunity,  he  sprang  upon  the  black  warrior  and 
commenced  his  operations  near  the  root  of  his  right 
fore  leg,  leaving  the  foe  to  select  among  his  own 
members ;  and  so  there  were  three  united  for  life,  as 
if  a  new  kind  of  attraction  had  been  invented  which 
put  all  other  locks  and  cements  to  shame. 

Certainly  there  is  not  the  fight  recorded  in  Con- 
cord history  at  least,  if  in  the  history  of  America,  that 
will  bear  a  moment's  comparison  with  this,  whether 
for  the  numbers  engaged  in  it,  or  for  the  patriotism 
and  heroism  displayed.  I  never  learned  which  party 
was  victorious,  nor  the  cause  of  the  war ;  but  I  felt 
for  the  rest  of  that  day  as  if  I  had  had  my  feelings 
excited  and  harrowed  by  witnessing  the  struggle,  the 
ferocity  and  carnage,  of  a  human  battle  before  my 
door. 

—  Henry  D.  Thoreau. 

Ji'rom  '■  Wald&n," 


21 


SEPTEMBER   DAYS 


In  flickering  light  and  shade  the  broad  stream  goes, 
With    cool,    dark   nooks   and    checkered,    rippling 
shallows ; 

Through  reedy  fens  its  sluggish  current  flows, 
Where  lilies  grow  and  purple-blossomed  mallows. 

The  aster  blooms  above  its  eddies  shine, 

With  pollened  bees  about  them  humming  slowly, 

And  in  the  meadow  lands  the  drowsy  kine 

Make  music  with  their  sweet  bells,  tinkling  lowly. 

The  shrill  cicala,  on  the  hillside  tree. 

Sounds  to  its  mate  a  note  of  love  or  warning ; 

And  turtle  doves  reecho,  plaintively. 

From  upland  fields,  a  soft,  melodious  mourning. 

A  golden  haze  conceals  the  horizon, 

A  golden  sunshine  slants  across  the  meadows ; 

The  pride  and  prime  of  summer  time  is  gone, 
But  beauty  lingers  in  these  autunni  shadows. 

0  sweet  September  !  thy  first  breezes  bring 

The  dry  leaf's  rustle  and  the  squirrel's  laughter. 

The  cool,  fresh  air,  whence  health  and  vigor  spring, 
And  promise  of  exceeding  joy  hereafter. 

—  George  Arxold. 


22 


AirrMNs    Miirrii 

'Tis  all  a  invtli  that  autmuii  grieves, 
For,  watcii  the  rain  among  the  leaves; 
\\  ith  .siUcr  lingers  dimly  seen, 
It  makes  each  leaf  a  tambourine, 
And  swings  and  leaps  with  elfin  mirth 
To  kiss  the  brow  of  mother  earth ; 
Or,  laughing  'mid  the  trembling  grass, 
It  nods  a  greeting  as  yon  pass. 
Oh  I     hear  the  rain  amid  the  leaves, 
'Tis  all  a  myth  that  autumn  grieves ! 

'Tis  all  a  myth  that  autumn  grieves. 

For,  list  the  wind  among  the  sheaves; 

Far  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  May, 

Or  storied  scents  of  old  Cathay, 

It  blends  the  perfumes  rare  and  good 

Of  spicy  pine  and  hickory  wood, 

And  with  a  voice  in  gayest  chime. 

It  prates  of  rifled  mint  and  thyme. 

Oh  !    scent  the  wdnd  among  the  sheaves, 

'Tis  all  a  myth  that  autumn  grieves  ! 

'Tis  all  a  myth  that  autumn  grieves, 
Behold  the  wondrous  web  she  weaves  ! 
By  viewless  hands  her  thread  is  spun 
Of  evening  vapors  shyly  won. 


23 

Across  the  grass,  from  side  to  side, 
A  myriad  unseen  shuttles  glide 
Throughout  the  night,  till  on  the  height 
Aurora  leads  the  laggard  light. 
Behold  the  wondrous  web  she  weaves, 
'Tis  all  a  myth  that  autumn  grieves  I 

—  Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  w^eather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  sliall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


24 


Tin:  men  court  of  inquiry 

It  nuist  have  hccn  tliive  weeks  or  a  month  after  I 
entered  tlie  school  that,  on  a  rainy  lioliday,  I  was 
met  by  two  boys  wlio  ordered  nie  peremptorily  to 
'*  lialt."  Both  had  staves  in  their  hands,  taller 
than  themselves,  and  one  of  them  addressed  me 
with  the  words:  "Arthur  Bonnicastle,  you  are 
arrested  in  the  name  of  the  High  Court  of  Inquiry, 
and  ordered  to  appear  before  that  august  tribunal, 
to  answer  for  your  sins  and  misdemeanors.  Right 
about  face ! " 

The  movement  had  so  much  the  air  of  mystery 
and  romance  that  I  was  about  equally  pleased  and 
scared.  Marching  between  the  two  officials,  I  was 
led  directly  to  my  own  room,  which  I  was  surprised 
to  find  quite  full  of  boys,  all  of  whom  were  grave 
and  silent. 

'•  "We  have  secured  the  offender,"  said  one  of  my 
captors,  "  and  now  have  the  satisfaction  of  presenting 
him  before  this  honorable  society." 

"  The  prisoner  will  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  look  at  me,"  said  the  presiding  officer,  in  a 
tone  of  dignified  severity. 

I  was  accordingly  marched  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  left  alone,  where  I  stood  with  folded  arms, 
as  became  the  grand  occasion. 


25 


"  Arthur  Bonnicastle,"  said  the  officer  before  men- 
tioned, "  you  are  brought  before  the  High  Court  of 
Inquiry  on  a  charge  of  telling  so  many  lies  that 
no  dependence  whatever  can  be  placed  upon  your 
words.  What  have  you  to  reply  to  this  charge? 
Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  guilty.  Who  says  I  am  ?  "  I  exclaimed 
indignantly. 

"  Henry  Hulm,  advance  !  "  said  the  officer. 

Henry  rose,  and  walking  by  me,  took  a  position 
near  the  officer  at  the  head  of  the  room. 

"  Henry  Hulm,  you  will  look  upon  the  prisoner 
and  tell  the  Court  whether  you  know  him." 


26 

••  1  know  him  well,  lie  is  my  chum,"  replied 
lltMirv. 

"  What  is  his  I'haractor  ?  " 

"  lie  is  hiiuht  ami  very  amiable." 

"  Do  you  consider  him  a  boy  of  truth  and  verac- 
ity V  •• 

"  I   do  not." 

"Has  he  deceived  you?"  inquired  the  officer. 
•If  he  has,  please  to  state  the  occasion  and  cir- 
cumstances." 

'•  No,  your  Honor.  He  has  never  deceived  me. 
I  always  know  whether  he  is  speaking  the  truth 
or  not." 

"  Have  you  ever  told  him  of  his  crimes,  and 
warned  him  to  desist  from   them  ? " 

"  I  have,"  replied  Henry,  "  many  times." 

"  Has  he  shown  any  disposition  to  mend  ?  " 

"  None  at  all,  your  Honor." 

"  What  is  the  character  of  his  falsehood  ?  " 

"  He  tells,"  replied  Henry,  "  stunning  stories  about 
himself.  Great  things  are  always  happening  to  him, 
and  he  is  alwaj's  pej'forming  wonderful  deeds." 

I  now  began,  with  great  shame  and  confusion,  to 
realize  that  I  was  exposed  to  ridicule.  The  tears 
came  into  my  eyes  and  dropped  from  my  cheeks,  but 
I  would  not  yield  to  the  impulse  either  to  cry  or  to 
attempt  to  fly. 


27 

"Will  you  give  us  some  specimens  of  his  stories  ?" 
said  the  officer. 

"  I  will,"  resiDonded  Henry,  "  but  I  can  do  it  best 
by  asking  him  some  questions." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  officer,  with  a  polite  bow. 
"Pursue  the  course  you  think  best." 

"  Arthur,"  said  Henry,  addressing  me  directly, 
"  did  you  ever  tell  me  that,  when  you  and  your 
father  were  on  the  way  to  this  school,  your  horse 
went  so  fast  that  he  ran  down  a  black  fox  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  cut  off  his  tail  with  the 
wheel  of  the  chaise,  and  that  you  sent  that  tail  to 
one  of  your  sisters  to  wear  in  her  winter  hat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  I  responded  with  my  face  flaming 
and  painful  with  shame. 

"  And  did  your  said  horse  really  run  down  said  fox 
in  the  middle  of  said  road,  and  cut  off  said  tail ;  and 
did  you  send  home  said  tail  to  said  sister  to  be  worn 
in  said  hat  ? "  inquired  the  judge,  with  a  low  gruff 
voice.  "  The  prisoner  will  answer  so  that  all  can 
hear." 

"  No,"  I  replied,  and,  looking  for  some  justification 
of  my  story,  I  added :  "'  But  I  did  see  a  black  fox,  — 
a  real  black  fox,  as  plain  as  day  ! " 

"  Oh !  oh  !  oh  !  "  ran  around  the  room  in  chorus. 
"  He  did  see  a  black  fox,  a  real  black  fox,  as  plain  as 
day ! " 


28 

"The  witness  will  pursue  his  inquiries,"  said  the 
ollicer. 

'*  Arthur,"  Henry  continued,  "  did  30U  or  did  you 
not  tell  nie  that  when  on  the  way  to  this  school  you 
overtook  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bird  in  their  wagon,  that 
you  wi-re  invited  into  the  wagon  by  Mrs.  Bird,  and 
that  one  of  Mr.  Bird's  horses  chased  a  calf  on  the 
road,  caught  it  by  the  ear  and  tossed  it  over  the 
fence,  and  broke  its  leg  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  did,"  I  said,  growing  desperate. 

"  And  did  said  horse  really  chase  said  calf,  and 
catch  him  by  said  ear,  and  toss  him  over  said  fence, 
and  break  said  leg  ?  "  inquired  the  officer. 

*'  lie  didn't  catch  him  by  the  ear,"  I  replied  dog- 
gedly, "  but  he  really  did  chase  a  calf." 

'•  Oh  I  oh  !  oh  !  "  chimed  in  the  chorus.  "  He  didn't 
catch  him  by  the  ear,  but  he  really  did  chase  a  calf  !  " 

"Witness,"  said  the  officer,  "you  will  pursue  your 
inquiries."   .   .   . 

"  Did  you  or  did  you  not,"  said  Henry,  turning  to 
me  again,  "  tell  me  that  one  day,  when  dining  at 
your  aunt's,  you  saw  a  magic  portrait  of  a  boy  upon 
the  wall,  that  came  and  went,  and  came  and  went 
like  a  shadow  or  a  ghost  ?  " 

As  Henry  asked  this  question  he  stood  between 
two  windows,  while  the  lower  portion  of  his  person 
was  hidden  by  a  table  behind  which  he  had  retired. 


29 

His  face  was  lighted  by  a  half  smile,  and  T  saw  him 
literally  in  a  frame,  as  I  had  first  seen  the  picture  to 
which  he  had  alluded.  In  a  moment  I  became  ob- 
livious to  everything  around  me  except  Henry's  face. 
The  portrait  was  there  again  before  my  eyes.  Every 
lineament  and  even  the  peculiar  pose  of  the  head 
were  recalled  to  me. 

"  Did  you  or  did  you  not  tell  me  the  story  about 
the  portrait,  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  responded,  "  and  it  looked  just  like  you. 
Oh  !  it  did,  it  did,  it  did  !  There  —  turn  your  head 
a  little  more  that  way  —  so  !  It  was  a  perfect  pic- 
ture of  you,  Henry.  You  never  could  imagine  such  a 
likeness." 

"  You  are  a  little  blower,  you  are,"  volunteered 
Jack  Linton,  from  a  corner. 

"  Order  !  order  !  order !  " 

Looking  around  upon  the  boys,  and  realizing  what 
had  been  done  and  what  was  in  progress,  I  went  into 
a  fit  of  hearty  crying,  that  distressed  them  quite  as 
much  as  my  previous  mood  had  done.  At  this 
moment  a  strange  silence  seized  the  assembly.  All 
eyes  were  directed  toward  the  door  upon  which  my 
back  was  turned.  I  wheeled  around  to  find  the 
cause  of  the  interruption.  There,  in  the  doorway, 
towering  above  us  all,  and  looking  questioningly 
down  upon  the  little  assembly,  stood  Mr.    Bird. 


30 

"  Wliat  does  this  mean  ?"  inquired  the  master. 

I  flew  to  liis  side  and  took  his  hand.  The  otficer 
who  h;ui  presided  ex|>lained  that  they  had  been  try- 
ing to  break  Artliui-  Boiinicastle  of  lying  and  they 
were  about  to  order  him  to  report  to  the  master  for 
confession  and  correction. 

Then  Mr.  Bird  took  a  chair  and  patiently  heard 
the  wiiole  story.  Without  a  reproach  further  than 
Siiying  that  he  thought  me  much  too  young  for  experi- 
ments of  the  kind  they  had  instituted  in  the  case, 
he  explained  to  them  and  to  me  the  nature  of  my 
misdemeanors. 

"  The  boy  has  a  great  deal  of  imagination,"  he  said, 
"  and  a  strong  love  of  approbation.  Somebody  has 
flattered  his  power  of  invention,  probably,  and  to 
secure  admiration  he  has  exercised  it  until  he  has 
acquired  the  habit  of  exaggeration.  I  am  glad  if 
he  has  learned,  even  by  the  severe  means  which 
have  been  used,  that  if  he  wishes  to  be  loved  and 
admired  he  must  always  tell  the  exact  truth,  neither 
more  nor  less.  If  you  had  come  to  me,  I  could  have 
told  you  all  about  the  lad,  and  instituted  a  better 
mode  of  dealing  with  him.  But  I  venture  to  say 
that  he  is  cured.  Aren't  you,  Arthur  ?  "  And  he 
stooped  and  lifted  me  to  his  face  and  locked  into 
my  eyes. 

*'  I  don't  think  I  shall  do  it  any  more,"  I  said. 


31 

Bidding  the  boys  disperse,  he  carried  me  down- 
stairs into  his  own  room,  and  charged  me  with  kindly 
counsel.  I  went  out  from  the  interview  humbled 
and  without  a  revengeful  thought  in  my  heart 
toward  the  boys  who  had  brought  me  to  my  trial. 
I  saw  that  they  were  my  friends,  and  I  was  deter- 
mined to  prove  myself  worthy  of  their  friendship. 

—  J.  Gr.  Holland. 

From  "  Arthur  Bonnicasile,"  published  by 
Char-leu  Scribner's  Sons. 

MOSES   GOES  TO   THE    FAIR 

As  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little 
higher  in  the  world,  niy  wife  suggested  that  it  would 
be  proper  to  sell  the  colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a 
neighboring  fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would  carry 
single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make  a  pretty 
appearance  at  church  or  upon  a  visit.  This  at  first 
I  opposed  stoutly ;  but  it  was  as  stoutly  defended. 
However,  as  I  weakened,  my  antagonist  gained 
strength,  till  at  last  we  agreed  to  part  with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had 
intentions  of  going  myself  ;  but  my  wife  persuaded 
me  that  I  had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail 
upon  her  to  permit  me  from  home.  "  No,  my  dear," 
said  she,  "  our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and  can 
buy  and  sell  to  very  good  advantage.     You  know  all 


32 

our  great  harijains  are  of  liis  purcliasing.  He  always 
staiuls  out  and  higgles,  anil  actually  tires  them  till 
he  ijets  a  bariiain." 

As  1  had  siMiu'  o|)inion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I 
was  willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this  commis- 
sion ;  and  the  next  morning  1  perceived  his  sisters 
mighty  busy  in  fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair;  trim- 
ming his  hair,  brushing  his  buckles,  and  cocking  his 
hat  with  pins.  The  business  of  the  toilet  being  over, 
we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  mounted 
upon  the  colt,  with  a  deal  box  before  him  to  bring 
home  groceries  in. 

He  had  on  a  coat  made  of  that  cloth  they  call 
thunder  and  lightnmg,  which,  though  grown  too 
short,  was  much  too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  His 
waistcoat  was  of  gosling-green,  and  his  sisters  had 
tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  black  ribbon.  We  all  fol- 
lowed him  several  paces  from  the  door,  bawling  after 
him,  ''  Good  luck  !  good  luck  !  "  till  we  could  see  him 
no  longer.   .   .   . 

As  it  was  now  almost  nightfall,  I  began  to  wonder 
what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the  fair.  "  Never 
mind  our  son,"  cried  my  wife  ;  "  depend  upon  it,  he 
knows  what  he  is  about.  I'll  warrant  we'll  never 
see  him  sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen  him 
buy  such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell  you 
a  good  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  spht  your 


33 

sides  with  laughing  —  But  as  I  Uve,  yonder  comes 
Moses  without  a  horse,  and  the  box  at  his  back." 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and 
sweating  under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapped 
romid  his  shoulders  like  a  peddler. 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  Moses  !  Well,  my  boy,  what 
have  you  brought  us  from  the  fair  ?  " 

"  I  have  brought  you  myself,"  said  Moses,  with  a 
sly  look,  and  resting  the  box  on  the  dresser. 

"Ay,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife,  "that  we  know;  but 
where  is  the  horse  ? " 

"  I  have  sold  him,"  replied  Moses,  "  for  three 
pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence." 

"  Well  done,  my  good  boy,"  returned  she  ;  "I  knew 
you  would  touch  them  off.  Between  ourselves,  three 
pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence  is  no  bad  day's 
work.     Come,  let  us  have  it  then." 

"  I  have  brought  back  no  money,"  cried  Moses 
again :  "  I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a  bargain,  —  and 
here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from  his  breast : 
"  here  they  are,  —  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with 
silver  rims  and  sha-green  cases." 

"  A  gross  of  green  spectacles !  "  repeated  my  wife, 
in  a  faint  voice.  "  And  you  have  parted  with  the 
colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  gross  of 
green  paltry  spectacles  !  " 

"Dear  mother,"  cried  the  boy,  "why  won't  you 

vm.— 3 


34 

listen   to  reason?     I    liad    tlieni  a  dead  bargain,  or  I 
slunild  not  liavi-  houglit  tlieiu.     The  silver  rims  aloue 

willsrll  lor  (loiildc  tlic  money." 


"  A  fig  for  the  silver  rims !  "  cried  my  wife  in  a 
passion  :  "  I  dare  swear  they  won't  sell  for  above  half 
the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken  silver,  five  shillings 
an  ounce." 

"  You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness,"  said  I,  "  about 
selling  the  rims,  for  they  are  not  worth  sixpence ;  for 
I  perceive  they  are  only  copper  varnished  over." 

"  What !  "  cried  my  wife ;  "  not  silver  !  the  rims 
not  silver ! " 


35 

"  No,"  cried  I ;  "  no  more  silver  than  your  sauce- 
pan." 

"  And  so,"  returned  she,  "we  have  parted  with  the 
colt,  and  have  only  got  a  gross  of  green  spectacles, 
with  copper  rims  and  shagreen  cases  ?  A  murrain 
take  such  trumpery !  The  blockhead  has  been  imposed 
upon,  and  should  have  known  his  company  better." 

'•  There,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "  you  are  wrong ;  he 
should  not  have  known  them  at  all." 

"  To  bring  me  such  stuff !  "  returned  she  ;  "  if  I 
had  them,  I  would  throw  them  into  the  fire." 

"  There  again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  said  I ; 
'•  for  though  they  are  copper,  we  will  keep  them  by 
us,  as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than 
nothing." 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived. 
He  now  saw  that  he  had  been  imposed  upon  by  a 
prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his  figure,  had 
marked  him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  therefore  asked  the 
circumstances  of  his  deception.  He  sold  the  horse, 
it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair  in  search  of  another. 
A  reverend-looking  man  brought  him  to  a  tent,  under 
pretense  of  having  one  to  sell. 

"  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we  met  another  man, 
very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty 
pounds  ii])on  these,  saying  that  he  wanted  money, 
and  would  dispose  of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value. 


36 

Tlie  (irsi  ociitlt'inaii  wliispered  iiiu  to  buy  them,  and 
caiitioiK'il  me  not  to  let  so  good  aiiotl'er  pass.  1  sent 
to  Mr.  Flaml)oroiigli,  and  they  talked  iiim  up  as 
Ihu'ly  as  tlu'V  did  me  ;  and  so  at  last  we  were  per- 
suaded to  buy  the  two  gross  between  us."   .   .   . 

Our  family  had  now  made  several  vain  attempts 
to  be  fine.  ''  You  see,  my  children,"  said  I,  "  how 
little  is  to  be  got  by  attempts  to  impose  upon  the 
world.  Those  that  are  poor  and  will  associate  with 
none  but  the  rich  are  liated  by  those  they  avoid, 
and  despised  by  those  they  follow." 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

A    LEGEND    OF    BREGENZ 

Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected, 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies  ; 
And  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below ! 

Midnight  is  there  :  and  silence 
Enthroned  in  heaven,  looks  down 

Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 
Upon  a  sleeping  tow^n  ; 


37 

For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

Upon  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled. 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread  ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast. 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  past. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 
With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 

Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 
In  a  deep  mist  of  years  ; 


ft8 

She  heeded  not  the  ruinors 

01  Austrian  war  and  strife; 
Each  day  slie  rose  contented, 

To  the  i-ahii  toils  of  life. 
*  #  #  *  # 

And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  hefore  (Jod's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt ;  the  valley 
More  peaceful  year  by  }■  ear ; 

^^'llen  suddenly  strange  portents 
Of  some  s^reat  deed  seemed  near. 

o 

The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 

Paced  up  and  dow^n  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered. 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one 

The  women  gathered  round ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work  was  put  away  ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 


39 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet,  now  and  then  seemed  watching, 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees, 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled. 

All  care  and  doubt  were  fled; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted. 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
Aud  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land  ! 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  !  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 


40 

lU'tore  lior,  stood  t";iir  Hrei^enz, 

Onct'   luorc  licr  towers  arose  ; 
W'liat  wvvv  the  t'rieiids  beside  her? 

{ )iily  her  comit  ry's  foes. 
Tlie  laees  of  her  kinsfolk. 

The  days  of  chihlhood  flown, 
The  eelioes  of  lier  mountains 

Iveelainied  her  as  their  own ! 


Nothino-  she  heard  around  lier 

(Thougli  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture  and  the  plain  ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die  !  " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step  she  sped ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed  ; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Towards  her  native  land. 


41 

Out,  out  into  the  darkness  — 
Faster,  and  still  more  fast; 

The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 
The  chestnut  wood  is  past. 

"  Faster  !  "  she  cries,  '-  0  faster  !  " 

Eleven  the  church  bells  chime ; 
"  0  God,"  she  cries,  '*•  help  Bregenz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine. 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 
She  strives  to  pierce  the  darkness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
*  *  *  *  4 

They  reached  the  gate  of  Bregenz 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !     Ere  daylight 
Her  battlements  are  manned ; 

Defiance  greets  the  army 
That  marches  on  the  land. 


42 

And  it  to  deeds  lu'i'oic 

Sliould  I'lidless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  uoble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  charger  and. the  maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long, 

And  calls  each  passing  hour  : 
''  Nine,  ten,  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  (0  crown  of  Fame !) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name. 

—  Adelaide  A.  Procter. 


48 

PARABLES 

ON    PERSECUTION 

1.  And  it  came  to  pass,  after  these  things,  that 
Abraham  sat  in  the  door  of  his  tent  about  the  going 
down  of  the  sun. 

2.  And  behold  a  man,  bowed  with  age,  came  from 
the  way  of  the  wilderness,  leaning  on  a  staff. 

3.  And  Abraham  rose  and  met  him,  and  said, 
"  Turn  in,  I  pray  thee,  and  wash  thy  feet,  and  tarry 
all  night,  and  thou  shalt  arise  early  in  the  morning 
and  go  on  thy  way." 

4.  But  the  man  said,  *'  Nay,  for  I  will  abide  under 
this  tree." 

5.  And  Abraham  pressed  him  greatly ;  so  he 
turned,  and  they  went  into  the  tent,  and  Abraham 
baked  unleavened  bread,  and  they  did  eat. 

6.  And  when  Abraham  saw  that  the  man  blessed 
not  God,  he  said  unto  him,  "  Wherefore  dost  thou 
not  worship  the  most  high  God,  creator  of  heaven 
and  earth  ?  " 

7.  And  the  man  answered  and  said,  "  I  do  not 
worship  the  God  thou  speakest  of,  neither  do  I  call 
upon  his  name ;  for  I  have  made  to  myself  a  god, 
which  abideth  always  in  my  house,  and  provideth 
me  with  all  things." 

8.  And  Abraham's  zeal  was    kindled  against  the 


44 

man,  and  lie  arose  and  drove  liim  forth  with  blows 
into  the  wilderness. 

'.».  And  at  niiilnight  God  called  upon  Abraham 
sayiniT.  "'  Aluaham,  where  is  the  stranger?" 

ll>.  And  Al)raliani  answered  and  said,  "  Lord,  he 
would  not  worship  thee,  neither  wonhl  he  call  upon 
thy  name  ;  therefore  I  have  driven  him  out  before 
my  face  into  the  wilderness." 

11.  And  God  said,  "Have  I  borne  with  him  these 
hundred  ninety  and  eight  years,  and  clothed  him, 
notwithstanding  his  rebellion  against  me;  and 
couldst  not  thou,  that  art  thyself  a  sinner,  bear  witli 
him  one  night  ?  " 

12.  And  Abraham  said,  "  Let  not  the  anger  of  the 
Lord  w^ax  hot  against  his  servant ;  lo,  I  have  sinned ; 
forgive  me,  I  pray  thee." 

13.  And  Abraham  arose,  and  went  forth  into  the 
wilderness,  and  sought  diligently  for  the  man,  and 
found  him,  and  returned  with  him  to  the  tent ;  and 
when  he  had  entreated  him  kindly,  he  sent  him 
away  on  the  morrow  \vith  gifts. 

14.  And  God  spake  unto  Abraham,  saying,  "  For 
this  thy  sin  shall  thy  seed  be  afflicted  four  hundred 
years  in  a  strange  land. 

15.  "  But  for  thy  repentance  will  I  deliver  them  ; 
and  they  shall  come  forth  with  power  and  gladness 
of  heart,  and  with  much  substance." 


45 


ON  BROTHERLY  LOVE 


1.  In  those  days  there  was  no  worker  of  iron  in 
all  the  land.  And  the  merchants  of  Midian  passed 
by  with  their  camels,  bearing  spices,  and  myrrh,  and 
balm,  and  wares  of  iron. 

2.  And  Reuben  bought  an  ax  of  the  Ishraaelite 
merchants,  which  he  prized  highly,  for  there  was 
none  in  his  father's  house. 

3.  And  Simeon  said  unto  Reuben  his  brother, 
"  Lend  me,  I  pray  thee,  thine  ax."  But  he  refused, 
and  would  not. 

4.  And  Levi  also  said  unto  him,  "My  brother,  lend 
me,  I  pray  thee,  thine  ax ; "  and  he  refused  him 
also. 

5.  Then  came  Judah  unto  Reuben,  and  entreated 
him,  saying,  ''  Lo,  thou  lovest  me,  and  I  have  always 
loved  thee ;  do  not  refuse  me  the  use  of  thine  ^x." 

6.  But  Reuben  turned  from  him,  and  refused  him 
likewise. 

7.  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  Reuben  hewed  timber 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  his  ax  fell  therein, 
and  he  could  by  no  means  find  it. 

8.  But  Simeon,  Levi,  and  Judah  had  sent  a  mes- 
senger after  the  Tshmaelites  with  money,  and  had 
bought  for  themselves  each  an  ;ix. 

9.  Then  came  Reuben  unto  Simeon,  and  said,  "Lo, 


46 

I  liavo  lost  mine  ax,  and  my  work  is  unfinished  ; 
lend  mv  lliin(>,  1   pray  thee." 

l(>.  And  Simeon  answered  iiim,  saying,  "  Thoii 
wouldst  not  lend  me  thine  ax,  therefore  will  1  not 
lend   \\icv  mine." 

1  1.  Thrn  he  went  unto  Levi,  and  said  unto  him, 
••  My  brotlKT,  thou  knowest  my  loss  and  my  necessity; 
lend  me,  1  pray  thee,  thine  ax." 

ri.  And  Levi  reproached  him,  sa3dng,  "Thou 
wouldst  not  leud  me  thine  ax  when  1  desired  it ; 
hut  I  will  be  better  than  thou,  and  will  lend  thee 
mine." 

13.  And  Reuben  was  grieved  at  the  rebuke  of 
Levi,  and,  being  ashamed,  turned  from  him,  and  took 
not  tlie  ax,  but  sought  his  brother  Judah. 

14.  And,  as  he  drew  near,  Judah  beheld  his  coun- 
tenance as  it  were  covered  with  grief  and  shame ; 
and  he  prevented  him,  sayuig,  "  My  brother,  I  know 
thy  loss ;  but  why  should  it  trouble  thee  ?  Lo,  have 
I  not  an  ax  that  will  serve  both  thee  and  me? 
Take  it,  I  pray  thee,  and  use  it  as  thine  own." 

10.  And  Reuben  fell  on  his  neck,  and  kissed  hhn, 
with  tears,  saying,  "Thy  kindness  is  great,  but  thy 
goodness  in  forgiving  me  is  greater.  Thou  art  in- 
deed my  brother,  and  whilst  I  live  will  I  love  thee." 

16.  And  Judah  said,  "Let  us  also  love  our  other 
brethren ;  behold,  are  we  not  all  of  one  blood  ?  " 


47 

17.  And  Joseph  saw  these  things,  and  reported 
them  to  his  father  Jacob. 

18.  And  Jacob  said,  '•  Reuben  did  wrong,  but  he 
repented  ;  Simeon  also  did  wrong  ;  and  Levi  was  not 
altogether  blameless. 

19.  "  But  the  heart  of  Judah  is  princely.  Judah 
hath  the  soul  of  a  king.  His  father's  children  shall  bow 
down  before  him,  and  he  shall  rule  over  his  brethren." 

—  Benjamin  Franklin. 

NOBILITY 

True  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeing  — 

In  doing  each  day  that  goes  by 
Some  little  good  —  not  in  the  dreaming 

Of  great  things  to  do  by  and  by. 
For  whatever  men  say  in  their  blindness. 

And  spite  of  the  fancies  of  youth, 
There's  nothing  so  kingly  as  kindness, 
'   And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

We  get  back  our  mete  as  we  measure  — 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and  feel  right ; 
Nor  can  we  give  pain  and  gain  pleasure, 

For  justice  avenges  each  slight. 
The  air  for  the  wing  of  the  sparrow, 

The  bush  for  the  robin  and  wren ; 
But  always  the  path  that  is  narrow 

And  straight,  for  the  children  of  men. 


48 

We  caniKil  make  liarLi,'aiiis  lor  blisses, 

.\(»r  catch  tliciii  like  lishes  in  nets; 
Anil  sometimes  tiie  tiling  oui'  life  misses, 

IK'll>s  more  than  the  tiling  that  it  gets. 
For  good  lieth  not  in  piirsning, 

Nor  gaining  of  great  or  of  small, 
lint  just  in  the  doing  ;  and  doing 

As  we  would  be  done  by,  is  all. 

Through  env}-,  through  malice,  through  hating, 

Against  the  w^orld  early  and  late, 
No  jot  of  our  courage  abating  — 

Our  part  is  to  work  and  to  wait. 
And  slight  is  the  sting  of  his  trouble 

Whose  winnings  are  less  than  his  worth ; 
For  he  who  is  honest  is  noble, 

Whatever  his  fortunes  or  birth. 

—  Alice  Gary. 

TACT   AND   TALENT 

Talent  is  something,  but  tact  is  everything. 
Talent  is  serious,  sober,  grave,  and  respectable ;  tact 
is  all  that,  and  more  too.  It  is  not  a  sixth  sense,  but 
it  is  the  life  of  all  the  five.  It  is  the  open  eye,  the 
quick  ear,  the  judging  taste,  the  keen  smell,  and  the 
lively  touch ;  it  is  the  interpreter  of  all  riddles, 
the  surmounter  of  all  difficulties,  the  remover  of  all 


49 

obstacles.  It  is  useful  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times ; 
it  is  useful  in  solitude,  for  it  shows  a  man  into  the 
world  ;  it  is  useful  in  society,  for  it  shows  him  his 
way  through  the  world. 

Talent  is  power,  tact  is  skill ;  talent  is  weight,  tact 
is  momentum  ;  talent  knows  what  to  do,  tact  knows 
how  to  do  it ;  talent  makes  a  man  respectable,  tact 
will  make  him  respected ;  talent  is  wealth,  tact  is 
ready  money.  For  all  the  practical  purposes,  tact 
carries  it  against  talent  ten  to  one. 

Take  them  to  the  theater,  and  put  them  against 
each  other  on  the  stage,  and  talent  shall  produce  you 
a  tragedy  that  shall  scarcely  live  long  enough  to  be 
condemned,  while  tact  keeps  the  house  in  a  roar,  night 
after  night,  with  its  successful  farces.  There  is  no 
want  of  dramatic  talent,  there  is  no  want  of  dramatic 
tact ;  but  they  are  seldom  together :  so  we  have  suc- 
cessful pieces  which  are  not  respectable,  and  respect- 
able pieces  which  are  not  successful. 

Take  them  to  the  bar,  and  let  them  shake  their 
learned  curls  at  each  other  in  legal  rivalry;  talent 
sees  its  way  clearly,  but  tact  is  first  at  its  journey's 
end.  Talent  has  many  a  compliment  from  the  bench, 
but  tact  touches  fees.  Talent  makes  the  world 
wonder  that  it  gets  on  no  faster,  tact  arouses  astonish- 
ment that  it  gets  on  so  fast.  And  the  secret  is,  that 
it  has  no  weight  to  carry  ;  it  nlakes  no  false  steps ; 

VIII.  — 4 


r.o 

it  hits  tlie  riL,^lit  nail  on  the  head  ;  it  loses  no  time  ; 
it  takes  all  hints;  and  hv  keeping  its  eye  on  the 
weatlier-coi'k,  is  ready  to  take  advantage  of  every 
wind    that  hlows. 

Take  them  into  the  church :  talent  has  always 
something  worth  hearing,  tact  is  sure  of  abundance  of 
hearers ;  talent  may  obtain  a  living,  tact  will  make 
one  ;  talent  gets  a  good  name,  tact  a  great  one  ;  talent 
convinces,  tact  converts ;  talent  is  an  honor  to  the 
profession,  tact  gains  honor  from  the  profession. 

Take  them  to  court :  talent  feels  its  weight,  tact 
finds  its  way ;  talent  commands,  tact  is  obeyed ; 
talent  is  honored  with  approbation,  and  tact  is  blessed 
by  preferment.  Place  them  in  the  senate :  talent 
has  the  ear  of  the  house,  but  tact  wins  its  heart,  and 
has  its  votes ;  talent  is  fit  for  employment,  but  tact 
is  fitted  for  it. 

Tact  seems  to  know  everything,  without  learning 
anything.  It  has  served  an  extemporary  apprentice- 
ship ;  it  wants  no  drilling ;  it  never  ranks  in  the  awk- 
ward squad  ;  it  has  no  left  hand,  no  deaf  ear,  no  blind 
side.  It  puts  on  no  look  of  wondrous  wisdom,  it  has 
no  air  of  profundity,  but  plays  with  the  details  of 
place  as  dexterously  as  a  well-taught  hand  flourishes 
over  the  keys  of  the  pianoforte. 

From  '•  London  Atlas." 


51 


THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY 

Philip  Nolan  was  as  fine  a  young  officer  as  there 
was  in  the  '•  Legion  of  the  West;'  as  the  western 
division  of  our  army  was  then  called.  When  Aaron 
Burr  made  his  first  dashing  expedition  down  to  New 
Orleans,  he  met  this  gay,  bright  young  fellow.  Burr 
marked  him,  talked  to  him,  walked  with  him,  took 
him  a  day  or  two's  voyage  in  his  flatboat,  and,  in 
short,  fascinated  him.  Under  this  baneful  influence 
poor  Nolan  became  sick  of  the  service  and  in  time 
turned  traitor  to  his  country.  He  was  tried  before 
a  court  martial  for  treason,  and  found  guilty  enough  ; 
yet  you  and  I  would  never  have  heard  of  him, 
reader,  but  that  when-  the  president  of  the  court 
asked  him  if  he  wished  to  say  anything  to  show  that 
he  had  always  been  faithful  to  the  United  States, 
he  cried  out  in  a  fit  of  frenzy  :  — 

"  Curse  the  United  States !  I  wish  I  may  never 
hear  of  the  United   States  again  !  " 

I  suppose  he  did  not  know  how  the  words  shocked 
old  Colonel  Morgan,  who  was  holding  the  court. 
Half  the  officers  who  sat  in  it  had  served  through 
the  Revolution,  and  their  lives,  not  to  say  their 
necks,  had  been  risked  for  the  very  idea  which  he  so 
cavalierly  cursed  in  his  madness. 

Old    Morgan    was,    indeed,    terribly    shocked.     If 


52 

\(il;i!»  liad  coiuparoil  Hi^orge  Washington  to  Benedict 
Arnold,  or  had  cried,  *"  God  save  King  George," 
Morgan  would  not  have  felt  worse.  He  called  the 
court  into  his  private  looni,  and  riitnrued  in  fifteen 
minutes,  with  a  face  like  a  sheet,  to  say:  — 

'•  Prisoner,  hear  the  sentence  of  the  Court !  The 
Court  decides,  subject  to  the  approval  of  the  Presi- 
dent, that  you  never  hear  the  name  of  the  United 
States  again." 

Nolan  laughed.  But  nobody  else  laughed.  Old 
Morgan  was  too  solemn,  and  the  whole  room  was 
hushed  dead  as  night  for  a  minute. 

Then  Morgan  added,  —  "  Mr.  Marshal,  take  the 
prisoner  to  Orleans  m  an  armed  boat,  and  deliver 
him  to  the  naval  commander  there."  The  marshal 
gave  his  orders  and  the  prisoner  was  taken  out  of 
court. 

"•  Mr.  Marshal,"  continued  old  Morgan,  "  see  that 
no  one  mentions  the  United  States  to  the  prisoner. 
Mr.  Marshal,  make  my  respects  to  Lieutenant 
Mitchell  at  Orleans,  and  request  him  to  order  that 
no  one  shall  mention  the  United  States  to  the  pris- 
oner while  he  is  on  board  ship.  The  Court  is  ad- 
journed without  day." 

President  Jefferson  approved  the  sentence  of  the 
court,  and  Philip  Nolan  was  a  man  without  a 
country.     The  secretary  of  the  navy  was  requested 


53 

to  put  him  on  board  a  government  vessel,  and  to 
direct  that  under  no  circumstances  was  the  prisoner 
ever  to  hear  of  his  country  or  to  see  any  information 
regarding;  it.  Otherwise  he  had  the  freedom  of  the 
ship  on  which  he  was  confined.  No  mess  liked  to 
have  him  permanently,  because  his  presence  cut  off  all 
talk  of  home,  or  of  the  prospect  of  return,  of  politics 
or  letters,  of  peace  or  of  war,  —  cut  off  more  than 
half  the  talk  men  liked  to  have  at  sea. 

As  he  was  almost  never  permitted  to  go  on  shore, 
even  though  the  vessel  lay  in  port  for  months,  his 
time  -at  the  best  hung  heavy ;  and  everybody  was 
permitted  to  leud  him  books,  if  they  were  not  pub- 
lished in  America  and  made  no  allusion  to  it:  He 
had  almost  all  the  foreign  papers  that  came  into  the 
ship,  sooner  or  later ;  only  somebody  must  go  over 
them  first,  and  cut  out  any  advertisement  or  stray 
paragraph  that  alluded  to  America.  Among  these 
books  was  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  which 
they  had  all  of  them  heard  of,  but  which  most  of 
them  had  never  seen.  Nobody  thought  there  could 
be  any  risk  of  anything  national  in  that,  so  Nolan 
was  permitted  to  join  the  circle  one  afternoon  when 
a  lot  of  them  sat  on  deck  smoking  and  reading 
aloud. 

Well,  it  so  happened  that  in  liis  turn  Nolan  took 
the  book  and  read  to  the  others ;  and  he  read  very 


54 

well.      No  Due  in  tiie  circle  knew  a  line  of  the  poem, 

only  it  was  all  magic  and   Border  chivalry,  and  was 

ten  thousand   years  ago.     Poor  Nolan  read  steadily 

througii  the  tit  til  canto,  stopped  a  minute  and  drank 

something,   and    tiien    began,   without  a   thought  of 

what  was  coming, — 

"  Hroathes  tliere  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Wlio  never  to  himself  hath  said,"  — 

It  seems  impossible  to  us  that  anybody  ever  heard 
this  for  the  first  time  ;  but  all  these  fellows  did  then, 
and  poor  Nolan  himself  went  on,  — 

"  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  !  " 

Then  they  all  saw  that  something  was  to  pay; 
but  he  expected  to  get  through,  I  suppose,  turned  a 
little  pale,  but  plunged  on, — 

"  Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ?  — 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well,"  — 

By  this  time  the  men  were  all  beside  themselves, 

wishing  tliere  was  any  way  to  make  him  turn  over 

two  pages  ;  but  he  had  not  quite  presence  of  mind 

for  that ;  he  colored  crimson,  and  staggered  on,  — 

"For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  these  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self,"  — 


56 

and  here  the  poor  fellow  choked,  could  not  go  on, 
but  started  up,  slung  the  book  into  the  sea,  vanished 
into  his  stateroom,  and  we  did  not  see  him  for  two 
months  again. 

He  never  read  aloud  again  unless  it  was  the  Bible 
or  Shakespeare,  or  something  else  he  was  sure  of. 
But  it  was  not  that  merely.  He  never  entered  in 
with  the  other  young  men  exactly  as  a  companion 
again.  He  was  always  shy  afterward,  very  seldom 
spoke,  unless  he  was  spoken  to,  except  to  a  very  few 
friends. 

A  happier  story  than  this  one  I  have  told  is  of  the 
war  which  came  along  soon  after.  In  one  of  the 
great  frigate  duels  with  the  English,  it  happened  that 
a  round  shot  from  the  enemy  entered  one  of  om^  ports 
square,  and  took  right  down  the  officer  of  the  gun 
himself,  and  almost  every  man  of  the  gun's  crew. 
Now  you  may  say  what  you  choose  about  courage, 
but  that  is  not  a  nice  thing  to  see.  But,  as  the  men 
who  were  not  killed  picked  themselves  up,  and  as 
they  and  the  surgeon's  people  were  carrying  off  the 
bodies,  there  appeared  Nolan,  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
with  the  rammer  in  his  hand ;  and,  just  as  if  he  had 
been  the  officer,  told  them  off  with  authority,  and 
with  that  way  which  makes  men  feel  sure  all  is  right 
and   is  going  to  be  right.     And   he  finished  loading 


.)»; 


the  gun  witli  his  own  liands,  aimed  it,  and  bade  the 
nuMi  lire.  And  tlien'  \\o  stayed,  in  conimanci  of  that 
'jun.  kt't'|»in!i-   those   I'cllows  in  spii-its,  till   ihc  enemy 


BP 

B?PW 

sir 

W\\ 

^^ 

w 

HR       J                  '"ri    ^*' 

s« 

^ 

w^ 

^^Kl 

^fe>^ 

m^ 

HPai 

BB^Kfi 

W^'' 

Pv^ 

^^^^m'm 

^niM~  il^^T 

-^K^'- 

ML  ^w  '.  ^ 

Wf 

MP| 

3^^^^     "^fc.  '       ^^HwS^^ 

Pv^ 

jrj"^^*^ 

R>aK   V   ^^^A/    "  nHByii 

|aH 

struck.  The  captain  walked  forward  by  way  of 
encouraging  the  men,  and  Nolan  touched  his  hat  and 
said  :  — 

''  I  am  showing  them  how  we  do  this  in  the 
artillery,  sir." 

"  I  see  you  are,  and  I  thank  you,  sir  ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  this  day,  sir,  and  you  never  shall,  sir," 
said  the  captain. 

And  after  the  whole  thing  was  over,  and  he  had 
the  Englishman's  sword,  in  the  midst  of  the  state 
and  ceremon}^  of  the  quarter-deck,  the  captain  said :  — 


57 

"Where  is  Mr.  Nolan?  Ask  Mr.  Nolan  to  come 
here." 

And  when  Nolan  came,  he  said :  "  Mr.  Nolan, 
we  are  all  very  grateful  to  you  to-day  ;  you  are  one 
of  us  to-day  ;  you  will   be  named  in  the  dispatches." 

And  then  the  old  man  took  off  his  own  sword  of 
ceremony,  and  gave  it  to  Nolan,  and  made  him  put 
it  on.  Nolan  cried  like  a  baby,  and  well  he  might. 
He  had  not  worn  a  sword  since  that  wretched  day 
at  Fort  Adams. 

The  captain  did  mention  him  in  the  dispatches. 
It  was  always  said  he  asked  that  Nolan  might  be 
pardoned.  He  wrote  a  special  letter  to  the  secretary 
of  war,  but  nothing  ever  came  of  it. 

My  own  acquaintance  with  Philip  Nolan  began 
six  or  eight  years  after  the  English  Avar,  on  my  first 
voyage  after  I  was  appointed  a  midshipman.  We 
had  him  to  dine  in  our  mess  once  a  week,  and  the 
caution  was  given  that  on  that  day  nothing  was  to 
be  said  about  home.  I  did  not  ask  why ;  there  were 
a  great  many  things  which  seemed  to  me  to  have  as 
little  reason. 

I  first  came  to  understand  about  "  the  man  without 
a  country "  one  day  when  we  overhauled  a  dirty 
little  schooner  which  had  slaves  on  board.  An 
officer  was  sent  to  take  charge  of  her,  and,  after  a 
few  minutes,  he  sent  back  his  boat  to  ask  that  some 


58 

o]w  ini<j:ht  bp  sent  wlio  conld  speak  Portuguese. 
Nolan  sti'pjH'd  out  and  said  he  should  be  ghid  to 
inlcM'pivt.  as  he  understood  the  language. 

••  Tell  them  they  are  free,"  said  Vaughan. 

Nolan  put  that  into  such  Portuguese  as  the  negroes 
could  understand.  Then  there  was  a  yell  of  delight, 
leaping  and  dauchig,  kissing  of  Nolan's  feet. 

*•  Tell  them,"  said  Vaughan,  well  pleased,  "  that  I 
will  take  them  all  to  Cape  Palmas." 

This  did  not  answer  so  well.  Cape  Palmas  was 
far  from  the  homes  of  most  of  them,  and  their  inter- 
preters instantly  said,  '^Ah,  non  Palmas."  Vaughan 
asked  Nolan  eagerly  what  they  said.  The  drops  stood 
on  poor  Nolan's  white  forehead,  as  he  said :  — 

"  He  says,  '  Not  Palmas.'  He  says,  '  Take  us 
home,  take  us  to  our  own  country,  take  us  to  our 
own  house,  take  us  to  our  own  pickaninnies  and  our 
own  women.'  He  says  he  has  an  old  father  and 
mother  who  will  die  if  they  do  not  see  him.  And 
this  one  says  he  left  his  people  all  sick,  and  paddled 
down  to  Fernando  to  beg  the  white  doctor  to  come 
and  help  them,  and  that  they  caught  him  in  the  bay 
just  in  sight  of  home,  and  that  he  has  never  seen 
anybody  from  home  since  then.  And  this  one  says," 
choked  out  Nolan,  "  that  he  has  not  heard  a  word 
from  his  home  in  six  months,  while  he  has  been 
locked  up  in  a  barracoon." 


59 

As  quick  as  Vaughan  could  get  words,  he  said  :  — 

"  Tell  them  yes,  yes,  yes ;  tell  them  they  shall  go 
to  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  if  they  will.  If  1  sail 
the  schooner  through  the  Great  White  Desert,  they 
shall  go  home  !  " 

And  after  some  fashion  Nolan  said  so.  And  then 
they  all  fell  to  kissing  him  again,  and  wanted  to  rub 
his  nose  with  theirs. 

But  he  could  not  stand  it  long;  and  getting  Vaughan 
to  say  he  might  go  back,  he  beckoned  me  down 
into  our  boat.  As  we  lay  back  in  the  stern  sheets 
and  the  men  gave  way  he  said  to  me  :  "  Youngster, 
let  that  show  you  what  it  is  to  be  without  a  family, 
without  a  home,  and  without  a  country.  And  if  3'OU 
are  ever  tempted  to  say  a  word  or  to  do  a  thing  that 
shall  put  a  bar  between  you  and  your  family,  your 
home,  and  your  country,  pray  God  in  His  mercy  to 
take  you  that  instant  home  to  His  own  heaven.  Stick 
by  your  family,  boy  ;  forget  you  have  a  self,  while  you 
do  everything  for  them.  Think  of  your  home,  boy ; 
write  and  send,  and  talk  about  it.  Let  it  be  nearer 
and  nearer  to  yom-  thought,  the  farther  you  have 
to  travel  from  it ;  and  rush  back  to  it  when  you  are 
free,  as  that  poor  black  slave  is  doing  now.  And  for 
your  country,  boy,"  and  the  w^ords  rattled  in  his 
throat,  "  and  for  that  flag,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
ship,  "  never  dream  a  dream  but  of  serving  her  as 


60 

slu'  bids  von,  thoiigli  tlic  service  carry  you  through  a 
tliousaiitl  liclls.  No  niatlcr  what  happens  to  you, 
IK)  niattcr  wIid  Hatters  you  or  abuses  you,  never  look 
at  auitthor  Hag,  never  let  a  night  pass  but  you  pray 
(itxl  to  bless  that  flag.  Remember,  boy,  that  behmd 
all  iliese  men  you  have  to  do  with,  behind  officers, 
and  gdvernment.  and  people  even,  there  is  the  Coun- 
try Herself,  your  Country,  and  that  you  belong  to 
her  as  you  belong  to  your  own  mother." 

I  was  frightened  by  his  calm,  hard  passion ;  but  I 
blundered  out  that  I  would,  by  all  that  was  holy,  and 
that  1  had  never  thought  of  doing  anything  else. 
He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  me ;  but  he  did,  almost  in 
a  whisper  say :  '*  Oh,  if  anybody  had  said  so  to  me 
when  I  was  of  your  age  !  " 

When  we  parted  from  him  at  the  end  of  our  cruise, 
I  was  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell.  I  was  glad  to 
meet  him  once  more  in  1830,  but  after  that  I  never 
saw  him  again.  And  now  it  seems  the  dear  old 
fellow  is  dead.  He  has  found  a  home  at  last,  and  a 
country. 

Since  writing  this,  I  have  received  a  letter  which 

gives  an  account  of  Nolan's  last  hours.     Here  is  an 

extract  from  the  letter :  — 

Levant,  2°  2'  S.  131°  W. 

Dfar  Fred:  — I  try  to  find  heart  and  life  to  tell  you  that 
it  is  all  over  with  dear  old  Nolan.     I  could  see  that  he  was  not 


61 

strong,  but  I  had  no  idea  the  end  was  so  near.  He  had  let  the 
doctor  come  and  see  him  as  he  lay  there,  —  the  first  time  the 
doctor  had  been  in  the  stateroom,  —  and  he  said  he  should 
like  to  see  me.  Well,  I  went  in,  and  there,  to  be  sure,  the 
poor  fellow  lay  in  his  berth,  smiling  pleasantly  as  he  gave  me 
his  hand,  but  looking  very  frail.  I  could  not  help  a  glance 
round,  which  showed  me  what  a  little  shrine  he  had  made  of 
the  box  he  was  lying  in.  The  stars  and  stripes  were  triced  up 
above  and  around  a  picture  of  Washington,  and  he  had  painted 
a  majestic  eagle,  with  lightnings  blazing  from  his  beak  and 
his  foot  just  clasping  the  whole  globe,  which  his  wings  over- 
shadowed. The  dear  old  boy  saw  my  glance,  and  said,  with  a 
sad  smile,  "  Here,  you  see,  I  have  a  country !  " 

And  he  said,  "Look  in  my  Bible,  when  I  am  gone."  And  I 
went  away.  I  had  no  thought  it  was  the  end.  But  in  an  hour, 
when  the  doctor  went  in  gently,  he  found  Nolan  had  breathed 
his  life  away  with  a  smile. 

We  looked  in  his  Bible,  and  there  was  a  slip  of  paper  at  the 
place  where  he  had  marked  the  text :  — 

"  They  desire  a  country,  even  a  heavenly  :  wherefore  God 
is  not  ashamed  to  be  called  their  God :  for  He  hath  prepared 
for  them  a  city." 

On  this  slip  of  paper  he  had  written  :  — 

"  Bury  me  in  the  sea  ;  it  has  been  my  home,  and  I  love  it. 
But  will  not  some  one  set  up  a  stone  for  my  memory  at  Fort 
Adams  or  at  Orleans,  that  my  disgrace  may  not  be  more  than 
I  ought  to  bear  ?     Say  on  it :  — 

"  IN    MEMORY    OF 

"PHILIP   NOLAN 

"  Lieutenant  in  the  Army  of  the  United  States 

"  He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has  loved  her; 
but  no  man  deserved  less  at  her  hands." 

—  Edwakd  Evkkktt  Halk  (Abridged). 


C>'2 


63 


THE   BATTLE   OF    LEXINGTON 

At  two  in  the  morning  of  April  19,  1775,  under 
the  eye  of  the  minister,  and  of  Hancock  and  Adams, 
Lexino-ton  common  was  alive  with  the  minutemen  ; 
and  not  with  them  only,  but  with  the  old  men,  who 
were  exempts,  except  in  case  of  immediate  danger  to 
the  town.  The  roll  was  called,  and  of  the  militia  and 
alarm  men,  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  answered 
to  their  names.  The  captain,  John  Parker,  ordered 
every  one  to  load  with  powder  and  ball,  but  to  take 
care  not  to  be  the  first  to  fire.  Messengers,  sent  to 
look  for  the  British  regulars,  reported  that  there  were 
no  signs  of  their  approach.  A  watch  was  therefore 
set,  and  the  company  dismissed  with  orders  to  come 
together  at  beat  of  drum.  Some  went  to  their  own 
homes ;  some  to  the  tavern,  near  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  common.  Samuel  Adams  and  Hancock,  whose 
seizure  was  believed  to  be  intended,  were  persuaded 
to  retire  toward  Woburn. 

The  last  stars  were  vanishing  from  night,  when  the 
foremost  party,  led  by  Pitcairn,  a  major  of  marines, 
was  discovered,  advancing  quickly  and  in  silence. 
Alarm  guns  were  fired,  and  the  drums  beat,  not  a 
call  to  village  husbandmen,  only,  but  the  reveille  to 
humanity.  Less  than  seventy,  perhaps  less  than 
sixty,  obeyed  the  summons,  and  in  sight  of  half  as 


64 

inanv  l>i»vs  and  uiianiH'd  nu^n,  were  ])araded  in  two 
ranks,  a  lew  rods  nortli  ol"  the  meetinghouse. 

How  often  in  tliat  building  liad  they,  with  renewed 
professions  of  their  faith,  looked  up  to  God  as  the 
stay  of  their  fathers  and  the  protector  of  their  privi- 
leges 1  How  often  on  that  green,  hard  by  the  burial 
place  of  their  forefathers,  had  they  pledged  themselves 
to  each  other  to  combat  manfully  for  their  birthright 
inheritance  of  liberty !  There  they  now  stood  side 
by  side,  under  the  provincial  banner,  with  arms  in 
their  hands,  silent  and  fearless,  willing  to  shed  their 
blood  for  their  rights,  scrupulous  not  to  begin  civil 
w^ar.  The  ground  on  which  they  trod  was  the  altar 
of  freedom,  and  they  were  to  furnish  the  victims. 

The  British  van,  hearing  the  drum  and  the  alarm 
guns,  halted  to  load ;  the  remaining  companies  came 
up ;  and,  at  half  an  hour  before  sunrise,  the  advance 
party  hurried  forward  at  double  quick  time,  almost 
upon  a  run,  closely  follow^ed  by  the  grenadiers.  Pit- 
cairn  rode  in  front,  and  when  within  five  or  six  rods 
of  the  minutemen,  cried  out :  "  Disperse,  ye  villains ! 
ye  rebels,  disperse  !  lay  down  your  arms !  why  don't 
you  lay  down  arms  and  disperse  ?  " 

The  main  part  of  the  countrymen  stood  motionless 
in  the  ranks,  witnesses  against  aggression ;  too  few 
to  resist,  too  brave  to  fly.  At  this,  Pitcairn  dis- 
charged a  pistol,  and  with  a  loud  voice  cried,  "  Fire  !  " 


66 

The  order  was  followed  first  by  a  few  guns,  which 
did  no  execution,  and  then  by  a  close  and  deadly 
discharge  of  musketry. 

In  the  disparit}^  of  numbers,  Parker  ordered  his 
men  to  disperse.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  a  few 
of  them,  on  their  own  impulse,  return  the  British 
fire.  These  random  shots  of  fugitives  or  dying  men 
did  no  harm,  except  that  Pitcairn's  horse  was  perhaps 
grazed,  and  a  private  of  the  Tenth  Light  Infantry 
was  touched  slightly  in  .the  leg. 

Jonas  Parker,  the  strongest  and  best  wrestler  in 
Lexington,  had  promised  never  to  run  from  British 
troops ;  and  he  kept  his  vow.  A  wound  brought 
him  to  his  knees.  Having  discharged  his  gun,  he 
was  preparing  to  load  it  again,  when  he  was  stabbed 
by  a  bayonet,  and  lay  on  the  post  which  he  took  at 
the  morning  drum-beat.  So  fell  Isaac  Muzzey,  and 
so  died  the  aged  Robert  Munroe,  who,  in  1758,  had 
been  an  ensign  at  Louisburg.  Jonathan  Harrington, 
junior,  was  struck  in  front  of  his  own  house  on 
the  north  of  the  common.  His  wife  was  at  the 
window  as  he  fell.  With  blood  gushing  from  his 
breast,  he  rose  in  her  sight,  tottered,  fell  again,  then 
crawled  on  hands  and  knees  toward  his  dwelling ; 
she  ran  to  meet  him,  but  only  reached  him  as  he 
expired  on  their  threshold.  Caleb  Harrington,  who 
had    gone    into  the  meetinghouse    for    powder,  was 

VIII.  —  5 


66 

shot  as  lie  came  out.  Samuel  Hadley  aud  Joiiii 
Brown  were  pursued,  and  killed,  alter  they  left  the 
green.  Asahel  l*orter  of  Woburn,  who  had  been 
taken  prisoner  hv  the  British  on  the  march,  en- 
deavoring to  escape,  was  shot  within  a  few  rods  of 
the  common.  Seven  men  of  Lexington  were  killed, 
nine  wounded,  —  a  quarter  part  of  all  who  stood 
in  arms  upon  the  green. 

Day  came  in  all  the  beauty  of  an  early  spring. 
The  trees  were  budding ;  the  grass  growing  rankly 
a  full  month  before  its  time;  the  bluebird  and  the 
robin  gladdening  the  genial  season,  and  calling 
forth  the  beams  of  the  sun  which  on  that  morning 
shone  with  the  warmth  of  summer  ;  but  distress 
and  horror  gathered  over  the  inhabitants  of  the 
peaceful  town.  There  on  the  green  lay  in  death 
the  gray-haired  and  the  young,  the  grassy  field  wag 
red  "  with  the  innocent  blood  of  their  brethren 
slain,"  crying  unto  God  for  vengeance  from  the 
ground. 

These  are  the  village  heroes,  who  were  more 
than  of  noble  birth,  proving  by  their  spirit  that 
they  were  of  a  race  divine.  They  gave  their  lives  in 
testimony  to  the  rights  of  mankind,  bequeathing  to 
their  country  an  assurance  of  success  in  the  mighty 
struggle  which  they  began. 

—  George  Bancroft. 


67 


LEXINGTON 


Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  gUstened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh. 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green,  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing, 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met. 
Hark  !  the  death  volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look  !  with  their  lifeblood  the  young  grass  is  wet ! 
Faint  is  the  feeble  breath 
•  Murmuring  low  in  death,  — 
"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died." 
Nerveless  the  iron  hand. 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling. 
From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come  ; 

As  through  the  storm  clouds  the  thunder- burst  rolling, 
Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 


H8 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  pcath 

Darken  tlie  waves  of  wrath; 
Long  have  they  gathered,  and  loud  shall  they  fall;   ' 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again  ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war  steed  was  prancing ; 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein  ; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest. 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  ravir.g, 

Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail. 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving. 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale  ; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band. 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 


69 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying  ! 

Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sank  to  their  rest,  — 

While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  told  flying 

\\'raps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest ! 

Borne  on  her  northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine. 

Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 

Floats  the  fair  emblem  her, heroes  have  won  ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

THE    BELL    OF    LIBERTY 

The  representatives  of  the  people  assembled  in 
solemn  conclave,  and  long  and  anxiously  surveyed 
the  perilous  ground  on  which  they  were  treading. 
To  recede  was  now  impossible  ;  to  go  on  seemed 
fraught  with  tei-rible  consequences.  The  result  of 
the  long  and  fearful  conflict  that  must  follow  was 
more  than  doubtful.  For  twenty  days  Congress  was 
tossed  on  a  sea  of  perplexity. 

At  length,  Richard  Henry  Lee,  shaking  off  the 
fetters  that  galled  his  noble  spirit,  arose  on  the  7th 
of  June,  and  in  a  clear,  deliberate  tone,  every  accent 
of  which  rang  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  silent 
hall,  proposed  the  following  resolution:  ^^ Resolved, 
That  these  United  Colonies  are,  and  ought  to  be,  free 


TO 

;nul  iii(lejKMi(li'Mt  Stall's,  and  all  political  counection 
between  iis  and  the  States  of  Great  Britain  is,  and 
ought  to  i)e,  totally  dissolved."' 

John  Adams,  in  wiio.se  soul  glowed  the  burning 
lutui'e,  src-onded  the  resolution  in  a  speech  so  full  of 
inn)assioned  fervor,  thrilling  eloquence,  and  prophetic 
power  that  Congress  was  carried  away  before  it,  as 
by  a  resistless  wave.  The  die  was  cast,  and  every 
man  was  now  compelled  to  meet  the  issue.  The 
resolution  was  finally  deferred  till  the  1st  of  July,  to 
allow  a  committee,  appointed  for  that  purpose,  to 
draft  a  Declaration  of  Independence. 

AVhen  the  day  arrived,  the  Declaration  was  taken 
up  and  debated,  article  by  article.  The  discussion 
continued  for  three  days,  and  was  characterized  by 
great  excitement.  At  length,  the  various  sections 
having  been  gone  through  with,  the  next  day,  July 
4th,  was  appointed  for  action. 

It  was  soon  known  throughout  the  city ;  and  in 
the  morning,  before  Congress  assembled,  the  streets 
were  filled  with  excited  men,  some  gathered  in  groups, 
engaged  in  eager  discussion,  and  others  moving  to- 
ward the  State  House.  All  business  was  forgotten 
in  the  momentous  crisis  which  the  country  had  now 
reached. 

No  sooner  had  the  members  taken  their  seats  than 
the  multitude  gathered  in  a  dense  mass  around  the 


71 

entrance.  The  bellman  mounted  to  the  belfry,  to  be 
ready  to  proclaim  the  joyful  tidings  of  freedom  as 
soon  as  the  final  vote  was  passed.  A  bright-eyed  boy 
was  stationed  below  to  give  the  signal. 

Around  the  bell,  brought  from  England,  had  been 
cast  more  than  twenty  years  before  the  prophetic 
motto  :  — 

"  Proclaim  Liberty  throughout  all  the  Land 
unto  all  the  inhabitants  thereof.  " 

Although  its  loud  clang  had  often  sounded  over  the 
city,  the  proclamation  engraved  on  its  iron  lip  had 
never  yet  been  spoken  aloud. 

It  was  expected  that  the  final  vote  would  be  taken 
without  delay ;  but  hour  after  hour  wore  on,  and  no 
report  came  from  that  mysterious  hall  where  the  fate 
of  a  continent  was  in  suspense.  The  multitude  grew 
impatient  ;  the  old  man  leaned  over  the  railing, 
straining  his  eyes  downward,  till  his  heart  misgave 
him  and  hope  yielded  to  fear. 

But  at  length,  at  about  two  o'clock,  the  door  of  the 
hall  opened,  and  a  voice  exclaimed,  "  It  has  passed." 
The  word  leapt  like  lightning  from  lip  to  lip,  followed 
by  huzzas  that  shook  the  building.  The  boy-sentinel 
turned  to  the  belfry,  clapped  his  hands,  and  shouted, 
"Ring!    ring!" 

The  desponding  bellman,  electrified  into  life  by  the 


72 

joytiil  nrws.  soizod  the  iron  tongue,  and  hurled  it 
l);ii'kwanl  and  forward  with  a.  chiug  that  startled 
every  heart  in  Phihidelphia  like  a  bugle  blast. 
'' Clang  I  clang  I "'  the  Itcll  of  Liberty  resounded  on, 
higher  and  clearer,  and  more  joyous,  blending  in  its 
deep  and  thrilling  vibrations,  and  proclaiming  in  loud 
and  long  accents  over  all  the  land,  the  motto  that 
encircled  it. 

Glad  messengers  caught  the  tidings  as  they  floated 
out  on  the  air.  and  sped  oft'  in  every  direction  to  bear 
them  (inward.  When  they  reached  New  York,  the 
bells  rang  out  the  glorious  news,  and  the  excited 
multitude,  surging  hither  and  thither,  at  length  gath- 
ered around  the  Bowling  Green,  and,  seizing  the 
leaden  statue  of  George  III,  which  stood  there,  tore 
it  into  fragments.  These  were  afterward  run  into 
bullets,  and  hurled  against  his  Majesty's  troops. 

When  the  Declaration  arrived  in  Boston,  the  people 
gathered  to  old  Faneuil  Hall  to  hear  it  read  ;  and  as 
the  last  sentence  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  reader,  a 
loud  shout  went  up,  and  soon  from  every  fortified 
height  and  every  battery  the.  thunder  of  cannon  re- 
echoed the  joy. 

—  J.  T.  Heajdley. 


78 


THE   RISING   IN   1776 

Out  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame. 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 
And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet ; 
While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington  ; 
And  Concord,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power. 
And  swelled  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkley  Manor  stood ; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk, 

And  some  esteemed  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Passed  'mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  naught ; 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 

How  sweet  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk, 

The  vale  with  peace  and  sunshine  full 
Where  all  the  happy  people  walk, 


74 

Decked  in  tlieir  hoinespiin  flax  and  wool  ! 

Where  youth's  gay  hats  with  blossoms  bloom  ; 
And  even*  maid  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast.  lii;e  her  own  lieart, 

A  bud  whose  depths  are  all  perfume"; 
While  every  garment's  gentle  stir 
Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 

The  pastor  came  ;  his  snowy  locks 

Hallowed  his  bi'ow  of  thought  and  care ; 

And  calmly,  as  shepherds  lead  their  flocks, 
He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  pastor  rose  ;  the  prayer  was  strong ; 

The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song  ; 

The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might,  — 

"  The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right !  '* 

He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured  ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 

And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 

The  imaginary  battle  brand, 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king 


76 


THE   SPIRIT   OF    '76. 


76 

Even  as  lie  spoke,  liis  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 
Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher ; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  lire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir ; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo  !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause,  — 
When  Berkley  cried,  "  Cease,  traitor  I  cease  ! 
God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace  !  " 

The  other  shouted,  "  Nay,  not  so. 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous  cause ; 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours, 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers, 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe  ; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day. 
There  is  a  time  to  fight  and  pray  !  " 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior  priest  had  ordered  so  — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  roar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  reverberating  blow. 
So  loud  and  clear,  it  seemed  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 


77 

And  there  the  starthng  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life ; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
•Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before : 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease ; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "War!  War!  War!" 

"Who  dares?"  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came,  — 

'*  Come  out  with  me.  in  Freedom's  name, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ?" 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  answered,  "  //" 

—  Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

RALEIGH   AND    QUEEN    ELIZABETH 

At  this  moment  the  gates  opened  and  ushers 
came  forth  in  array.  After  these,  amid  a  crowd  of 
lords  and  ladies,  —  so  placed  around  her  that  she 
could  see  and  be  seen  on  all  sides,  —  came  Elizabeth 
herself.  She  was  then  in  the  full  glow  of  what  in  a 
sovereign  was  called  beauty,  and  possessed  a  noble 
figure  joined  to  striking  and  commanding  features. 


78 

Youni^  Walter  Raleigli  liad  uover  before  been  so 
near  t lu'  person  of  the  Qiuhmi,  and  he  pressed  forward 
as  far  as  the  line  of  gnards  permitted.  Unbonneting, 
at  the  same  time  lie  lixcd  his  eager  gaze  on  the 
(^^iiecn's  approacii  with  a  mixture  of  respectful  curios- 
ity and  modest,  yet  ardent  admiration.  Walter  then 
withdrew. 

The  guards,  struck  with  his  rich  attire  and  noble 
countenance,  allowed  him  to  approach  the  ground 
over  which  the  Queen  was  to  pass,  somewhat  closer 
than  was  permitted  to  ordinary  spectators. 

Thus  the  adventurous  youth  stood  full  in  Eliza- 
beth's eye,  and  she  fixed  her  keen  glance  on  Walter 
as  she  approached  the  place  where  he  stood.  Just 
then  there  occurred  an  incident  that  drew  her  atten- 
tion toward  him  yet  more  strongly. 

The  night  had  been  rainy,  and  just  where  the 
young  gentleman  stood  a  small  quantity  of  mud 
interrupted  the  Queen's  passage.  As  she  hesitated  to 
pass  on,  Walter,  snatching  his  cloak  from  his  shoulder, 
threw  it  on  the  miry  spot  so  as  to  insure  her  step- 
ping over  it  without  soiling  her  feet. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  the  young  man,  who  accom- 
panied this  act  of  devoted  courtesy  with  a  profound 
reverence,  and  a  blush  that  overspread  his  whole 
countenance.  The  Queen  was  confused,  and  blushed 
in   her  turn,    nodded    her  liead,  and    hastily*  passed 


79 

on,    and    embarked    in   her   barge  without   sa^ang   a 
word. 

"Come  along,  Sir  Coxcomb,"  said  Walter's  com- 
panion, Blount ;  '•  yom^  gay  mantle  will  need  the 
brush  to-day,  I  fancy." 


"This  cloak,"  said  the  youth,  taking  it  up  and 
folding  it,  '•  shall  never  be  brushed  while  in  my  pos- 
session." 

"  And  that  will  not  be  long,  if  you  have  not  a  little 
more  economy,"  muttered  Blount. 

Their  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  one  of 


80 

tlie  royal  attcmlants.  "  1  was  sent,"  said  he,  after 
KH)kinu;  at  Blount  and  Walter  attentively,  "  to  a  gen- 
tleman will)  hath  no  cVmk  or  a  nuiddy  one.  You,  sir, 
1  think,"  addressing  the  youuger  cavalier,  ''are  the 
man :  you  will  please  follow  me." 

The  young  cavalier  was  then  guided  to  the  water 
side  by  the  attendant,  who  showed  him  marked 
respect.  He  ushered  Raleigh  into  one  of  the  skiffs 
that  lay  ready  to  attend  the  Queen's  barge,  which 
was  already  proceeding  up  the  river. 

The  two  rowers  used  their  oars  with  such  skill  that 
they  very  soon  brought  their  little  skift"  under  the  stern 
of  the  Queen's  barge.  Here  Elizabeth  sat  beneath 
an  awning,  attended  by  two  or  three  ladies  and  the 
nobles  of  her  household.  She  looked  more  than  once 
at  the  boat  in  which  the  young  adventurer  was  seated, 
spoke  to  those  around  her,  and  seemed  to  laugh. 

At  length  one  of  the  attendants,  by  the  Queen's 
order  apparently,  made  a  sign  for  the  young  man  to 
step  from  his  own  skiff  into  the  royal  barge.  This  he 
did  with  graceful  agility  at  the  fore  part  of  the  boat, 
and  was  brought  aft  to  the  Queen's  presence. 

Raleigh  imderw^ent  the  gaze  of  majesty,  not  the 
less  gracefully  that  his  self-possession  was  mingled 
with  embarrassment.  The  muddied  cloak  still  hung 
upon  his  arm,  and  formed  the  natural  topic  with 
which  the  Queen  introduced  the  conversation. 


81 

"  You  have  this  day  spoiled  a  gay  mantle  in  our 
service,  young  man.  We  thank  you  for  your  service, 
though  the  manner  of  offering  it  was  unusual  and 
somewhat  bold." 

"  In  a  sovereign's  need,"  answered  Walter,  "  it  is 
each  liegeman's  duty  to  be  bold." 

"  That  was  well  spoken,  my  lord,"  said  the  Queen, 
turning  to  a  grave  person  who  sat  beside  her. 
"  Well,  young  man,  your  gallantry  shall  not  pass  un- 
rewarded. Go  to  the  wardrobe-keeper,  and  he  shall 
have  orders  to  supply  the  suit  which  you  have  cast 
away  in  our  service.  Thou  shalt  have  a  suit,  and 
that  of  the  newest  cut,  I  promise  thee,  on  the  word 
of  a  princess." 

"  May  it  please  your  Grace,"  said  Walter,  hesitat- 
ing, "  it  is  not  for  so  humble  a  servant  of  your  Majesty 
to  measure  out  your  bounties ;  but  if  it  became  me  to 
choose  —  " 

"  Thou  wouldst  have  gold,  I  warrant  me,"  said  the 
Queen,  interrupting  him.  "  Fie,  young  man  !  Yet 
thou  maj^est  be  poor,"  she  added,  ''  or  thy  parents 
may  be.     It  shall  be  gold,  if  thou  Avilt." 

Walter  waited  patiently  until  the  Queen  had  done, 
and  then  modestly  assured  her  that  gold  was  still 
less  in  his  wish  than  the  raiment  her  Majesty  had 
before  offered. 

"  How,  boy,"   said   the  Queen,  ''  neither  gold  nor 


82 

i^ariiuMit  ^  Wliat  is  it  thou  wouMst  have  of  me, 
thou  ?  " 

••  Only  porniission,  madani,  to  wear  the  cloak 
wliich  (lid  you   ihis   trilling  service." 

••  IVruiissiou  to  wear  thine  own  cloak,  thou  silly 
boy  I  "  said  the  Qtieeu. 

''  It  is  no  longer  mine."  said  Walter.  "  When 
your  Majesty's  toot  touched  it,  it  became  a  lit 
mantle  for  a  prince,  but  far  too  rich  a  one  for  its 
former  owner." 

The  Queen  again  blushed,  and  sought  to  cover  by 
laughing  a  slight  degree  of  not  unpleasant  surprise 
and  confusion. 

'*  Heard  you  ever  the  like,  my  lords  ?  The  youth's 
head  is  turned  with  reading  romances.  I  must  know 
something  of  him,  that  I  may  send  him  safe  to  his 
friends.  —  What  is  thy  name  and  birth  ?  " 

•'  Raleigh  is  my  name,  most  gracious  Queen ;  the 
youngest  son  of  a  large  but  honorable  family  of 
Devonshire." 

''  Raleigh  ? "  said  Elizabeth,  after  a  moment's 
thought :  "  have  we  not  heard  of  your  service  in 
Ireland  ?  " 

"  1  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  do  some  service 
there,  madam,"  replied  Raleigh  ;  ''  scarce,  however, 
of  importance  enough    to  reach  your  Grace's  ears." 

"  They  hear  farther  than  you    think  of,  and  have 


83 

heard  of  a  youth  who  defended  a  ford  in  Shannon 
against  a  wliole  band  of  rebels,  until  the  stream  ran 
purple  with  their  blood  and  his  own." 

"  Some  blood  I  may  have  lost,"  said  the  youth, 
looking  down  ;  "  but  it  was  where  my  best  is  due,  and 
that  is  in  your  Majesty's  service." 

The  Queen  paused,  and  then  said  hastily,  "  You 
are  very  young  to  have  fought  so  well  and  to  speak 
so  well.  So  hark  ye,  Master  Raleigh,  see  thou  fail 
not  to  wear  thy  muddy  cloak,  till  our  pleasure  be 
further  known.  And  here,"  she  added,  giving  him  a 
jewel  of  gold,  "  I  give  thee  this  to  wear  at  the 
collar." 

Raleigh,  to  whom  nature  had  taught  these  courtly 
arts  which  many  scarcely  acquire  from  long  experi- 
ence, knelt,  and,  as  he  took  from  her  hand  the  jewel, 
kissed  the  fingers  which  gave  it. 

—  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

From  '•  Kenilworth." 

SILAS  MARNER  AND  EPPIE 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century  a  linen  weaver, 
named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation  in  a 
stone  cottage  near  the  village  of  Raveloe,  not  far 
from  the  edge  of  a  deserted  stone  pit. 

The  years  rolled  on  without  producing  any  change 
in  the  life  of  Silas  Marner  and  his  neighbors.     There 


84 

was  only  one  important  addition  which  the  years  had 
brought  :  it  was  that  Master  Marner  had  laid  by  a 
line  sight  ol  money  somewhere. 

Gradually  tiie  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half- 
crowns  grew^  to  a  heap,  and  Silas  began  to  think  the 
money  was  conscious  of  him  and  he  would  on  no 
account  have  exchanged  those  coins,  which  had 
become  his  familiars,  for  other  coins  with  unknown 
faces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted  them ;  but  it 
was  only  in  the  night,  w^hen  his  work  was  done,  that 
he  drew  tliem  out  to  enjoy  their  companionship. 
He  had  taken  up  some  bricks  in  his  floor  underneath 
his  loom,  and  here  he  had  made  a  hole  in  which  he 
set  the  iron  pot  that  contained  his  guineas  and  silver 
coins,  covering  the  bricks  with  sand  whenever  he 
replaced  them. 

So,  year  after  year  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in 
solitude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot  and  his 
life  narrowing  and  hardening. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  the  fifteenth  year, 
after  he  came  to  Raveloe,  a  great  change  came 
over  Marner' s    life. 

One  night,  as  he  was  about  to  sit  down  to  his 
evening  meal,  Silas  remembered  that  a  bit  of  very 
fine  twine  was  indispensable  to  a  new  piece  of  work, 
so  taking  up  his  lantern  and  his  old  sack,  he  left  his 
cottage  and  set  out  on  his  errand.     Returning  from 


85 

the  village,  he  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction 
that  his  errand  was  done.  He  opened  it,  and  to  his 
short-sighted  eyes  everything  remained  as  he  had 
left  it  except  that  the  fire  sent  out  a  welcome 
increase  of  heat. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm,  he  began  to  think  that 
it  would  be  a  long  time  to  wait  till  after  supper 
before  he  drew  out  his  guineas,  and  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  see  them  on  the  table  before  him  as  he 
ate.  He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  on  the  floor  near 
his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  and  removed  the 
bricks.  The  hole  was  empty !  His  heart  beat  vio- 
lently, but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was  gone  could  not 
come  at  once.  He  passed  his  trembling  hand  all 
about  the  hole,  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his 
eye  had  deceived  him ;  then  he  held  the  candle  in 
the  hole,  and  examined  it  curiously,  trembling  more 
and  more. 

At  last  he  shook  so  violently  that  he  let  fall  the 
candle,  and  lifted  his  hands  to  his  head,  trying  to 
steady  himself  that  he  might  think.  Had  he  put 
the  gold  somewhere  else  last  night  and  then  for- 
gotten it  ?  He  searched  in  every  corner  ;  he  turned 
his  bed  over  and  shook  it ;  he  looked  in  his  brick 
oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When,  at  length, 
there  was  no  other  place  to  be  searched  he  kneeled 
down  again  and  felt  once  more  all  around  the  hole- 


86 

His  gold  was  not  there.  There  was  no  slielter  from 
the  terrible  truth. 

One  nin'iit.  some  weeks  later,  Silas  stood  in  the 
dooiwny  of  his  eottage,  looking  out  at  the  wintry 
sky.  Sinee  he  had  lost  his  money  he  had  contracted 
the  habit  of  opening  the  door  and  looking  out  from 
time  to  time  as  if  he  thought  that  his  money  might 
be  somehow^  coming  back  to  him.  Since  the  oncom- 
ing of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and 
again,  though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing 
all  distance  veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last 
time  he  opened  *it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds 
were  parting  here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listened, 
and  gazed  for  a  long  while,  his  heart  touched  with 
the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again,  and  put  his 
right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  to  close  it  —  but 
he  did  not  close  it.  A  strange  wave  of  unconscious- 
ness passed  over  him,  and  he  stood  like  a  graven 
image  with  wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his 
door. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  closed  his 
door,  unaware  of  any  change  except  that  the  light 
had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint. 
He  thought  he  had  been  too  long  standing  at  the 
door  and  looking  out.  Turning  towards  the  hearth 
where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart  and  sent  forth 
only  a  red,  uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on 


87     . 

his  fireside  chair  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs 
together,  when  to  his  blurred  vision  it  seemed  as  if 
there  were  gold  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth. 
Gold  !  —  his  own  gold  —  brought  back  to  him  as 
mysteriously  as  it  had  been  taken  away !  He  felt 
his  heart  begin  to  beat  violently,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments he  was    unable  to    stretch  out    his   hand  and 


grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The  heap  of  gold 
seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  beneath  his  agitated 
gaze.  He  leaned  forward  at  last  and  stretched  forth 
his  hand ;  but  instead  of  the  hard  coin,  his  fingers 
encountered  soft,  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement, 
Silas  fell  on  his  knees  to  examine  the  marvel ;  it  was 
a  sleeping  child  —  a  round,  fair  thing  with  soft, 
yellow  rings  all  over  its  head. 


8R 

There  was  a  cry  on  the  liearth  —  the  child  liad 
awakened,  and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee. 
It  clun^j;  around  his  neck  and  burst  loud  and  louder 
into  cries,  in  the  bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas 
pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  iniconsciously  uttered 
sounds  of  hushing  tenderness  while  he  bethought 
himself  tliat  some  of  his  porridge  which  had  got  cool 
by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child,  if  it 
were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

The  porridge  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little  one 
and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide, 
quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her 
mouth.  Presently  she  slipped  from  his  knee  and 
began  to  toddle  about,  but  with  a  pretty  stagger 
that  made  Silas  jump  up  and  follow. her,  lest  she 
should  fall  against  anything  that  would  hurt  her. 

It  seemed  to  Silas  that  this  little  girl  had  been 
sent  to  him  in  some  mysterious  way,  to  take  the 
place  of  his  lost  gold,  and  he  determined  to  keep  her 
for  his  own,  naming  her  Eppie  after  his  mother. 
As  the  weeks  grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh 
and  fresh  links  between  his  life  and  the  lives  of 
his  neighbors  from  which  he  had  before  shrunk 
continually. 

Unlike  the  gold  which  needed  nothing.  Eppie  was 
a  creature  of  endless  claims  and  ever  growing  desires, 
seeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and  living  sounds  and 


89 

living  movements,  and  stirring  the  hnman  kindness 
in  all  eyes  that  looked  on  her.  When  the  sunshine 
grew  strong  and  lasting,  so  that  the  buttercups  were 
thick  in  the  meadows,  Silas  might  be  seen  in  the 
sunny  midday  or  in  the  late  afternoon,  strolling  out 
to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  stone  pits  to  where  the 
flowers  grew,  till  they  reached  some  favorite  bank 
where  he  could  sit  down  while  Eppie  toddled  to 
pluck  the  flowers  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged 
things  that  murmured  happily  above  the  bright  petals. 

By  the  time  Eppie  was  three  j^ears  old,  she  de- 
veloped a  fine  capacity  for  mischief  and  for  devising 
ingenious  ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found 
much  exercise  not  only  for  Silas's  patience  but  for 
his  watchfulness-  and  penetration. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip 
of  linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom 
when  he  w^as  busy.  It  made  a  broad  belt  around 
her  waist  and  was  long  enough  to  allow  of  her  reach- 
ing her  bed,  but  not  long  enough  for  her  to  attempt 
any  dangerous  climbing.  One  bright  summer's 
morning  Silas  had  been  more  engrossed  than  usual 
in  "setting  up"  a  new  piece  of  work,  an  occasion  on 
which  his  scissors  were  in  requisition.  These  scissors 
had  been  kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's  reach,  but  the 
click  of  them  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for  her  ear. 
Silas  had  seated  himself  at  his  loom,  and  the  noise 


90 

of  woaviiiLT  liad  hcixnn  ;  hut  ho  liad  loft  his  scissors 
on  a  ledgo  which  Kppic's  arm  was  long  enough  to 
roach  ;  and  now,  like  a  small  mouse,  watching  her 
opportunity,  she  stole  (piiotly  from  her  corner,  se- 
cured the  scissors  and  toddled  back  to  the  bed  again. 
She  had  a  distinct  intention  as  to  the  use  of  the 
scissors ;  and  having  cut  the  linen  strip  in  a  jagged 
but  oifectual  niannei-.  in  two  moments  she  had  run 
out  at  tiie  open  door  where  the  sunshine  was  inviting 
hor,  while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be  a  better  child 
than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  happened  to  need 
his  scissors  that  the  terrible  fact  burst  upon  him : 
Eppie  had  run  out  by  herself  —  had  perhaps  fallen 
into  the  stone  pit.  Silas,  shaken  by  the  worst  fear 
that  could  have  befallen  him,  rushed  out,  calling 
"  Eppie,"  and  ran  eagerly  about  the  uninclosed  space 
exploring  the  dry  cavities  into  which  she  might  have 
fallen,  and  then  gazing  with  questioning  dread  at  the 
smooth,  red  surface  of  the  water  in  the  stone  pit. 
The  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long  had 
she  been  out  ?  The  meadow  was  searched  in  vain  ; 
and  he  got  over  the  stile  into  the  next  field,  looking 
with  dying  hope  toward  a  small  pond  which  was  now 
reduced  to  its  summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leave  a 
wide  margin  of  good  adhesive  mud.  Here,  however, 
sat  Eppie,  discoursing  cheerfully  to  her  own  small 
boot,  which   she  was  using  as  a   bucket  to  convey 


91 

the  water  into  a  deep  hoof  mark,  while  her  httle 
naked  foot  was  planted  comfortably  on  a  cushion  of 
olive-green  mud. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  which  demanded  severe 
treatment,  but  Silas  overcome  with  joy  at  finding  his 
treasure  again  could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up 
and  cover  her  with  half-sobbing  kisses.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  carried  her  home  and  had  begun  to  think 
of  the  necessary  washing,  that  he  recollected  the  need 
that  he  should  punish  Eppie  and  "make  her  remem- 
ber." The  idea  that  she  miglit  run  away  and  come 
to  harm,  gave  him  unusual  resolution  and  for  the 
first  time  he  determined  to  try  the  coal  hole  —  a 
small  closet  near  the  hearth. 

"  Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began, 
holding  her  on  his  knee  and  pointing  to  her  muddy 
feet  and  clothes.  "  Naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors 
and  run  away.  Eppie  must  go  into  the  coal  hole 
for  being  naughty.  Daddy  must  put  her  in  the 
coal  hole."  He  half  expected  that  this  would  be 
shock  enough,  and  that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry. 
But  instead  of  that  she  began  to  shake  herself  on 
his  knee,  as  if  the  proposition  opened  a  pleasing 
novelty.  Seeing  that  he  must  proceed  to  extremi- 
ties, he  put  her  into  the  coal  hole,  and  held  the  door 
closed  with  the  trembling  sense  that  he  was  using 
a  strong  measure.     For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 


92 

but  then  came  a  little  cry  '"  Opy,  opy !  "  and  Silas 
let  lior  out  again,  saying,  ''  Now  Eppie  'ull  never  be 
naughty  again,  else  siie  nnist  go  in  th^  coal  hole  — 
a  black,  naughty  plaee.". 

The  weaA'ing  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this 
morning,  for  now  Eppie  nnisl  be  washed,  and  have 
clean  clothes  on  ;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this 
punishment  would  have  a  lasting  effect,  and  save  time 
in  future.  In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and 
Silas,  having  turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could 
do  with  the  linen  band,  threw  it  down  again,  with 
the  reflection  that  Eppie  would  be  good  without 
fastening  for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  He  turned 
round  again,  and  was  going  to  place  her  in  her  little 
chair  near  the  loom,  when  she  peeped  out  at  him 
with  black  face  and  hands  again  and  said,  ''  Eppie 
in  de  toal  hole  !  "  This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole 
discipline  shook  Silas's  belief  in  punishment.  "  She'd 
take  it  all  for  fun,"  he  observed,  "  if  I  didn't  hurt 
her,  and  that  I  can't  do." 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  bur- 
den of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  by  Father  Silas. 
The  stone  hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her,  lined 
with  downy  patience:  and  also  in  the  world  that 
lay  beyond  the  stone  hut,  she  knew  nothing  of  frowns 
and  denials.  —  Geokge  Eliot. 

From  "  Silas  Mam6r" 


98 


THE    BELL   OF   ATRI 

At  Atri  in  Abruzzo,  a  small  town 

Of  ancient  Roman  date,  but  scant  renown, 

One  of  those  little  places  that  have  run 

Half  up  the  hill,  beneath  a  blazing  sun. 

And  then  sat  down  to  rest,  as  if  to  say, 

"  I  climb  no  farther  upward,  come  what  may,"  — • 

The  Re  Giovanni,  now  unknown  to  fame, 

So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the  name, 

Had  a  great  bell  hung  in  the  market  place 

Beneath  a  roof,  projecting  some  small  space. 

By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 

Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with  all  his  train, 

And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud  and  long, 

Made  proclamation,  that  whenever  wrong 

Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 

The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the  King, 

Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 

Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped. 

What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not  here  be  said. 

Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay. 

The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn  away, 

Unraveled  at  the  end,  and,  strand  by  strand, 

Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer's  hand, 


fl4 

Till  one,  wlio  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  bryony, 
So  that  the  lea\'es  and  tendrils  of  the  vine 
liunu'  Hla'  a  Notive  uarland  at  a  shrine. 

Hy  I'lianee  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A  Unight,  with  spnr  on  heel  and  sword  in  belt, 
^^'ho  loved  to  liiint  the  wild  boar  in  the  woods, 
AMio  loved  his  lak-ons  with  their  crimson  hoods. 
Who  loved  his  lionnds  and  horses,  and  all  sports 
And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts  ;  — 
Loved,  or  had  loved  them  ;  for  at  last,  grown  old, 
His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 
He  sold  his  horses,  sold  his  hawks  and  hounds, 
Rented  his  vineyards  and  his  garden  grounds. 
Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of  all, 
To  starve  and  shiver  in  a  naked  stall. 
And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair. 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and  spare. 

At  length  he  said  :  "  What  is  the  use  or  need 
To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 
Eating  his  head  off  in  in 3^  stables  here, 
When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is  dear  ? 
Let  him  go  feed  upon  the  public  ways; 
I  want  him  only  for  the  holida3'S." 
So  the  old  steed  was  turned  into  the  heat 
Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless  street; 


96 


■HE   CALLS   FOR   JUSTICE. 


96 

And  wandi'red  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn. 
Harked  at  bv  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier  and  thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultry  clime 

It  is  the  eustoni  in  the  summer  thne, 

\\  ith  bolted  doors  and  window  shutters  closed, 

The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed  ; 

When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 

The  loud  alarum  of  the  accusing  bell ! 

The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 

Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and  then  rose 

And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluctant  pace 

Went  panting  forth  into  the  market  place, 

Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  crossbeam  swung 

Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue. 

In  half-articulate  jargon,  the  old  song :  — 

"  Some  one  hath  done  a  wrong,  hath  done  a  wrong ! 

But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry's  light  arcade 

He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  beneath  its  shade, 

No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born, 

But  a  poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 

Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 

Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  bryony. 

"  Domeneddio  !  "  cried  the  Syndic  straight, 

"  This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri's  steed  of  state ! 

He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 

And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the  best." 


97 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane  a  noisy  crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a  summer  cloud. 

And  told  the  story  of  the  wretched  beast 

In  tive-and-twenty  different  ways  at  least, 

With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 

To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 

The  knight  was  called  and  questioned ;  in  reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny; 

Treated  the  matter  as  a  pleasant  jest. 

And  set  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the  rest, 

Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 

That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him  with  his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 

The  proclamation  of  the  -King  ;  then  said  : 

"  Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand  and  gay, 

But  Cometh  back  on  foot,  and  begs  its  way ; 

Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 

Of  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds ! 

These  are  familiar  proverbs ;  but  I  fear 

They  never  yet  have  reached  your  knightly  ear. 

^^'hat  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  repute 

Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor  brute  ? 

He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not,  merits  more 

Than  they  who  clamor  loudest  at  the  door. 

Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this  steed 

Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you  shall  take  heed 


98 

To  I'omfort  liis  olil  ;i|iv,  and  to  provide 
Shelter  in  stall,  and  lood  and  lield  beside." 

The  Uni,u:ht  withdrew  abashed  ;  the  people  all 

Leil  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his  stall. 

The  Kinii:  heard  and  approved,  and  laughed  in  glee, 

And  cried  aloud  :   ''  Right  well  it  pleaseth  me! 

C'hurch  l»ells  at  l)est  l)ut  ring  us  to  the  door, 

But  go  not  in  to  mass ;  my  bell  doth  more : 

It  Cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 

Of  creatures  dumb  and  unknown  to  the  laws ; 

And  this  shall  make,  in  every  Christian  clime, 

The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time." 

—  H.   W.  Longfellow. 

THE    MOCKING    BIRD 

The  plumage  of  the  mocking  bird,  though  none  of 
the  homeliest,  has  nothing  gaudy  or  brilliant  in  it, 
and  had  he  nothing  else  to  recommend  him,  would 
scarcely  entitle  him  to  notice ;  but  his  figure  is  well 
proportioned,  and  even  handsome.  The  ease,  elegance, 
and  rapidity  of  his  movements,  the  animation  of  his 
eye,  and  the  intelligence  he  displays  in  listening,  and 
laying  up  lessons  from  almost  every  species  of  the 
feathered  creation  within  his  hearing,  are  ideally  sur- 
prising, and  mark  the  peculiarity  of  his  genius.  To 
these  qualities  we  may  add  that  of  a  voice  full,  strong. 


99 

and  musical,  and  capable  of  almost  every  modulation, 
froni  the  clear,  mellow  tones  of  the  wood  thrush  to  the 
savage  screams  of  the  bald  eagle. 

In  measure  and  accent,  he  faithfully  follows  his 
originals.  In  force  and  sweetness  of  expression,  he 
greatly  improves  upon  them.  In  his  native  groves, 
mounted  upon  the  top  of  a  tall  bush,  or  half-grown 
tree,  in  the  dawn  of  dewy  morning,  while  woods  are 
already  vocal  with  a  multitude  of  warblers,  his  admi- 
rable song  rises  preeminent  over  every  competitor. 
The  ear  can  listen  to  his  music  alone,  to  which 
that  of  all  the  others  seems  a  mere  accompaniment. 
Neither  is  this  strain  altogether  imitative.  His  own 
native  notes,  which  are  easily  distinguishable  b}^  such 
as  are  well  acquainted  with  those  of  our  various  birds 
of  song,  are  bold  and  full  and  varied,  seemingly,  beyond 
all  limits.  They  consist  of  short  expressions  of  two, 
three,  or  at  the  most,  five  or  six  syllables,  generally 
interspersed  with  imitations,  and  all  of  them  uttered 
with  great  emphasis  and  rapidity,  and  continued  with 
ardor,  for  half  an  hour,  or  an  hour,  at  a  time. 

His  expanded  wings  and  tail  glisten  with  white, 
and  the  buoyant  gayety  of  his  action  arrests  the  eye, 
as  his  song  most  irresistibly  does  the  ear.  He  sweeps 
round  with  the  most  enthusiastic  ecstas}' ;  he  mounts 
and  descends,  as  his  song  swells  or  dies  away.  He 
bounds  aloft  with  the  celerity  of  an  arrow,  as  if  to 


100 

recover  or  recall  his  vorv  soul,  which  expired  in  the  last 
elevated  strain. 

While  tiius  exerting  himself,  a  bystander,  destitute 
of  sight,  would  suppose  that  all  the  feathered  tribes 
had  assembled  together  for  a  trial  of  skill,  each  striv 
ing  to  produce  his  utmost  effect,  —  so  perfect  are  his 
imitations.  He  many  times  deceives  the  sportsman, 
and  sends  him  in  search  of  birds  that  perhaps  are  not 
within  miles  of  him,  but  whose  notes  he  exactly  imi- 
tates. Even  birds  themselves  are  frequently  imposed 
on  by  this  admirable  mimic,  and  are  decoyed  by  the 
fancied  call  of  their  mates,  or  dive,  with  precipitation, 
into  the  depths  of  thickets,  at  the  scream  of  what  they 
suppose  to  be  the  sparrow  hawk. 

The  mocking  bird  loses  little  of  the  power  and 
energy  of  his  song  by  confinement.  In  his  domesti- 
cated state,  when  he  begins  his  career  of  song,  it 
is  impossible  to  stand  by  uninterested.  He  whistles 
for  the  dog.  Caesar  starts  up,  wags  his  tail,  and  runs 
to  meet  his  master.  The  bird  squeaks  out  like  a  hurt 
chicken ;  and  the  hen  hurries  about,  with  hanging 
wings  and  bristled  feathers,  clucking  to  protect  her 
injured  brood.  The  barking  of  the  dog,  the  mewing 
of  the  cat,  the  creaking  of  a  passing  wheelbarrow, 
follow  with  great  truth  and  rapidity.  He  repeats  the 
tune  taught  him  by  his  master,  though  of  considerable 
length,  fully  and  faithfully.     He  runs  over  the  quiver- 


101 

ings  of  the  canary,  and  the  clear  whistling  of  the 
Virginia  nightingale  or  redbird,  with  such  superior 
execution  and  effect,  that  the  mortified  songsters  feel 
their  own  inferiority,  and  become  altogether  silent, 
while  he  seems  to  triumph  in  their  defeat,  by  redoub- 
ling his  exertions. 

This  excessive  fondness  for  variety,  however,  in  the 
opinion  of  some,  injures  his  song.  His  elevated  imi- 
tations of  the  brown  thrush  are  frequently  interrupted 
by  the  crowing  of  cocks ;  and  the  warblings  of  the 
bluebird,  which  he  exquisitely  manages,  are  mingled 
with  the  screaming  of  swallows,  or  the  cackling  of 
hens. 

Amidst  the  simple  melody  of  the  robin,  we  are 
suddenly  surprised  by  the  shrill  reiterations  of  the 
whip-poor-will ;  while  the  notes  of  the  killdeer,  blue  jay, 
martin,  Baltimore  oriole,  and  twenty  others  succeed, 
with  such  imposing  reality,  that  we  look  round  for  the 
originals,  and  discover,  with  astonishment,  that  the  sole 
performer,  in  this  singular  concert,  is  the  admirable 
bird  before  us. 

During  this  exhibition  of  his  powers,  he  spreads  his 
wings,  expands  his  tail,  and  throws  himself  around 
the  cage  in  all  the  ecstasy  of  enthusiasm,  seeming 
not  only  to  sing,  but  to  dance,  keeping  time  to  the 
measure  of  his  own  music. 

—  Alexaxdek  Wilson. 


102 


11110    WATKK    OrZEL 

TiiK  watorfalls  of  the  sierra  are  frequented  by 
oulv  »»Ht*  l)ir(l,  —  the  ouzel,  or  water  tlinisji.  He  is 
a  singularly  joyous  and  lovable  little  fellow,'  about 
the  size  of  a  robin,  clad  in  a  plain  waterproof  suit  of 
bluish  i!:ray,  with  a  tinge  of  chocolate  on  his  head 
and  shoulders. 

Amono;  all  the  countless  waterfalls  I  have  met  in 
the  course  of  my  exploration  in  the  sierra,  not  one 
was  found  without  its  ouzel.  No  canon  is  too  cold 
for  this  little  bird,  none  too  lonely,  provided  it  be 
rich  in  falling  water.  Find  a  fall  or  rushing  rapid 
anywhere  upon  a  clear  stream,  and  there  you  will 
find  an  ouzel,  flitting  about  in  the  spray,  diving  in 
foaming  eddies  ;  ever  vigorous  yet  self-contained,  and 
neither  seeking  nor  shunning  your  company. 

If  disturbed  while  dipping  about  in  the  margin 
shallows,  he  either  sets  off  with  a  rapid  whir  to  some 
other  feeding  ground,  or  alights  on  some  half -sub- 
merged rock  out  in  the  current,  and  immediately 
begins  to  nod  and  courtesy  like  a  wren,  turning  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  with  many  other  odd,  dainty 
movements. 

He  is  the  humming  bird  of  the  waters,  loving 
rocky  ripple  slopes  and  sheets  of  foam  as  a  bee  loves 
flowers,    as    a    lark    loves    sunshine    and    meadows. 


103 

Amons;  all  the  mountain  birds,  none  has  cheered  me 
so  much  in  my  lonely  wanderings.  For  both  in 
winter  and  in  summer  he  sings,  and  cheerily.  \\'hile 
water  sings,  so  must  he,  in  heat  or  cold,  calm  or 
storm ;  low  in  the  drought  of  summer  and  the 
drought  of  winter,  but  never  silent. 

As  for  weather,  dark  days  and  bright  days  are  the 
same  to  him.  The  voices  of  most  song  birds,  however 
joyous,  suffer  a  long  winter  eclipse,  but  the  ouzel 
sings  on  through  all  the  seasons  and  every  kind  of 
storm.  No  need  of  spring  sunshine  to  thaw  his  song, 
for  it  never  freezes.  Never  shall  you  hear  anything 
wintry  from  his  warm  breast ;  no  wavering  notes 
between  sorrow  and  joy.  His  mellow,  fluty  voice  is 
ever  tuned  to  gladness.  ■ 

One  cold  winter  morning  I  sallied  forth  to  see 
what  I  might  learn  and  enjoy.  The  loose  snow  was 
already  over  five  feet  deep  on  the  meadows,  but  I 
made  my  way  to  a  certain  ripple  on  the  river  where 
one  of  my  ouzels  lived.  He  was  at  home,  busily 
gleaning  his  breakfast  among  the  pebbles,  apparently 
unaware  of  anything  extraordinary  in  the  weather. 
Presently  he  flew  out  to  a  stone  against  which  the 
icy  current  was  beating,  and  turning  his  back  to  the 
wind,  sang  as  delightfully  as  a  lark  in  springtime. 

I  found  a  few  sparrows  busy  at  the  feet  of  the 
larger  trees  gleaning  seeds  and  insects,  joined   now 


104 

and  then  In  a  robin.  A  solitary  gray  eagle  was 
hniviiig  the  .storiii  on  the  top  of  a  tall  pine  stump. 
He  was  standing  bolt  upright,  with  his  back  to  the 
wind,  a  tuft  of  snow  piled  on  his  square  shoulders, — 
a  nionunicnt  of  passive  endurance.  Every  snow-bound 
bird  seemed  more  or  less  uncomfortable,  if  not  in  posi- 
tive distress.  Not  one  cheerful  note  came  from  a 
single  bill.  Their  patient  suffering  offered  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  spontaneous  gladness  of  tho  ouzel,  who 
could  no  more  help  exhaling  sweet  song  than  a  rose 
sweet  fragrance. 

The  songs  of  the  ouzel  are  exceedingly  difficult  of 
description.  Thoiigh  I  have  been  acquainted  with  my 
favorite  ten  years,  and  bave  heard  liim  sing  nearly 
every  day,  I  still  detect  notes  and  strains  that  seem 
new  to  me.  Nearly  all  of  bis  music  is  sweet  and 
tender,  flowing  from  his  round  breast  like  water  over 
the  smootb  lip  of  a  pool,  and  then  breaking  into  a 
sparkling  foam  of  melodious  notes. 

The  ouzel  never  sings  in  chorus  with  other  birds, 
but  only  with  tlie  streams.  I  have  often  observed 
him  .singing  in  the  midst  of  beaten  spray,  his  music 
completely  buried  beneath  the  water's  roar.  Yet  I 
knew  he  was  surely  singing,  by  his  gestures  and  the 
movements  of  his  bill. 

His  food  consists  of  all  kind  of  water  insects,  which 
in  summer  are  chiefly  found  along  shallow  margins. 


i 


106 

Here  he  wades  about,  ducking  his  head  under  water 
and  deftly  turning  over  pebbles  and  fallen  leaves 
with  his  bill.  He  seldom  chooses  to  go  into  deep 
water,  where  he  has  to  use  his  wings  in  diving. 

During  the  winter,  when  the  streams  are  chilled 
nearly  to  the  freezing  point,  so  that  the  snow  falling 
into  them  is  not  wholly  dissolved,  —  then  he  seeks 
the  deeper  portions  of  the  rivers  where  he  may  dive 
to  clear  water. 

One  stormy  morning  in  winter  when  the  Merced 
River  was  blue  and  green  with  unmelted  snow,  I 
observed  an  ouzel  perched  on  a  snag  in  the  midst  of 
a  swift-rushing  rapid.  He  was  singing  cheerily,  as 
if  everything  was  just  to  his  mind.  ^^  hile  I  stood 
on  the  bank  admiring  him,  he  suddenly  plunged  into 
the  current,  leaving  his  song  abruptly  broken  off. 
After  feeding  a  minute  or  two  at  the  bottom,  and 
when  one  would  suppose  that  he  must  surely  be 
swept  far  down  stream,  he  emerged  just  where  he 
went  down.  Alighting  on  the  same  snag,  he  show- 
ered the  water  beads  from  his  feathers,  and  continued 
his  unfinished  song. 

The  ouzel's  nest  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
pieces  of  bird  architecture  I  ever  saw,  odd  and  novel 
in  design,  and  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  genius  of 
the  little  builder.  It  is  about  a  foot  in  diameter, 
round  in  outline,  with  a  neatly  arched  opening  near 


106 

the  bottom,  somewhat  liko  ;ni  old-fashioned  brick 
oven.  It  is  built  chielly  o(  the  gieeu  and  yellow 
mosses  that  cover  the  rocks  and  drift  logs  near  the 
waterfalls.  These  are  deftly  interwoven  into  a  charm- 
ing little  hut,  and  so  situated  that  many  of  the  outer 
mosses  continue  to  grow  as  if  they  had  not  been 
plucked.  The  site  chosen  for  the  curious  mansion  is 
usually  some  little  rock  shelf  within  reach  of  the 
lighter  spray  of  a  waterfall,  so  that  its  walls  are  kept 
green  and  growing. 

In  these  moss  huts  three  or  four  eggs  are  laid, 
white,  like  foam  bubbles.  And  well  may  the  little 
birds  hatched  from  them  sing  water  songs,  for  they 
hear  them  all  their  lives.  I  have  often  observed  the 
young  just  out  of  the  nest  making  their  odd  gestures, 
and  seeming  in  every  way  as  much  at  home  as  their 
experienced  parents.  No  amount  of  familiarity  with 
people  and  their  waj-s  seems  to  change  them  in  the 
least. 

Even  so  far  north  as  icy  Alaska,  I  have  found  my 
glad  singer.  One  cold  day  in  November  I  was 
exploring  the  glaciers  between  Mount  Fair  weather 
and  the  Stikeen  River.  After  trying  in  vain  to  force 
a  way  through  the  icebergs,  I  was  weary  and  baffled, 
and  sat  resting  in  my  canoe.  While  I  thus  lingered, 
drifting  with  the  bergs,  I  suddenly  heard  the  well- 
known  whir  of  an  ouzel's  wings,  and,  looking  up,  saw 


107 

uiy  little  comforter  coming  straight  across  the  ice 
from  the  shore.  In  a  second  or  two  he  was  with  me, 
flying  around  my  head  with  a  happy  salute,  as  if  to 
say :  — 

"Cheer  up,  old  friend,  you  see  I  am  here,  and  all's 
well." 

Then  he  flew  back  to  the  shore,  alighted  on  the 
topmost  jag  of  a  stranded  iceberg,  and  began  to  nod 
and  bow  as  though  he  were  on  one  of  his  favorite 
bowlders  in  the  midst  of  a  sunny  sierra  cascade. 

Such,  then,  is  our  little  water  ouzel,  beloved  of 
every  one  who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  know  him.  Trac- 
ing on  strong  wing  every  curve  of  the  swiftest  torrent, 
not  fearing  to  follow  it  through  its  darkest  gorges 
and  its  coldest  snow  tunnels ;  acquainted  with  every 
waterfall,  he  echoes  its  divine  tnusic. 


—  John  Muir. 


From  "  The  Mountains  of  California." 


THE   DAFFODILS 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 


108 

C'outiiiiiuus  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never  ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  the  bay  ; 
Ten  thousand  saw  1  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  iieads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkhng  waves  in  glee  ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  to  me  the  show  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  the  inward  eye. 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

—  William  Wokdsworth. 

WHERE    LIES    THE    LAND? 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


109 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face, 
Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace  ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  recHning,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  northwesters  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave  ! 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

—  Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

THE   CZAR   AND   THE   ANGEL 

Somewhere,  nowhere,  in  a  certain  empire,  time  out 
of  mind,  and  in  no  land  of  ours,  dwelt  a  Czar  who 
was  so  very  proud  that  he  feared  neither  God  nor 
man.  He  listened  to  no  good  counsel,  but  did  only 
that  wliich  was  good  in  his  own  eyes,  and  no  one 
dared  to  put  him  riglit.  And  all  his  ministers  and 
nobles  grieved  exceedingly,  and  all  the  people  grieved 
likewise. 

One  day  the  Czar  went  to  church  and  he  listened 
to  tlie  priest  who  was  reading   I'njm  the  Scriptures. 


no 

Now  there  were  certain  words  in  the  holy  book  which 
pleased  not  the  Czar.  "  Why  say  such  words  to 
me  ? "  thought  he,  ''  words  that  I  can  never  forget, 
though  I  grow  gray-headed."  After  service  the  Czar 
went  home,  and  bade  his  servants  send  the  priest  to 
him.     The  priest  came. 

"  IIow  darest  thou  to  read  such  words  to  me  ? " 
asked  the  Czar. 

"  They  were  written  to  be  read,"  replied  the  priest. 

"  Written,  indeed  !  And  wouldst  thou  then  read 
everything  that  is  written?  Blot  out  those  words 
and  never  dare  to  read  them  again,  I  connnand 
thee  !  " 

"  It  is  not  I  who  have  written  the  words  of  the 
Holy  Scripture,  your  Majesty,"  said  the  priest ;  ''  nor 
is  it  for  me  to  blot  them  out." 

'•  What !  thou  dost  presume  to  teach  me  ?  I  am 
the  Czar,  and  it  is  thy  duty  to  obey  me." 

"  In  all  things  will  I  obey  thee,  0  Czar,  save  only 
in  sacred  things.  God  is  over  them ;  men  cannot  alter 
them,"  answered  the  priest. 

"  Not  alter  them  !  "  roared  the  Czar  ;  "  if  I  wish 
them  altered,  altered  they  must  be.  Strike  me  out 
those  words  instantly,  I  say,  and  never  dare  read 
them  in  church  again.     Dost  thou  hear?" 

''  I  dare  not,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  have  no  will  in 
the  matter." 


Ill 


'I   COMMAND   THEE,    FELLOW  I 


112 

"1  <*(mun;ind  thee,  tcllow  !  " 

"  1  dare  not,  0  Czar  I  " 

*'  Well,"  said  the  Czar.  "  I'll  give  tliee  three  days 
to  til  ink  alK)ut  it.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day 
appear  before  Die,  and  1'!!  strike  thy  head  from  thy 
shoulders  if  thou  dost  not  obey  me  !  " 

Thou  the  priest  bo  ved  low  and  returned  to  his 
home. 

The  third  day  was  already  drawing  to  a  close  and 
the  priest  knew  not  wliat  to  do.  It  was  no  great 
terror  to  him  to  die  for  the  faith,  but  what  would 
become  of  his  wife  and  children  ?  He  walked  about, 
and  wept,  and  wrung  his  hands :  — 

"  Oh,  woe  is  me  !  woe  is  me  !  " 

At  last  he  lay  down  on  his  bed,  but  not  until  dawn 
did  he  close  his  eyes  in  sleep.  Then  he  saw  in  a 
dream  an  angel  standing  at  his  head. 

''  Fear  nothing  !  "  said  the  angel.  "  God  hath  sent 
me  down  on  earth  to  protect  thee  !  " 

So,  early  in  the  morning,  the  priest  rose  up  full  of 
joy  and  prayed  gratefully  to  God. 

The  Czar  also  awoke  early  in  the  morning,  and 
shouted  to  his  huntsmen  to  gather  together  and  go 
hunting  with  him  in  the  forest. 

So  away  they  went  to  the  hunt,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  a  stag  leaped  out  of  the  thicket  beneath  the 
very  eyes  of  the  Czar.     He  galloped  after  it.     Every 


113 

moment  the  stag  seemed  to  be  faltering,  and  yet  the 
Czar  could  never  quite  come  up  with  it.  Eager  with 
excitement,  he  spurred  on  his  horse. 

"  Faster,  faster !  "  he  cried  ;  "  now  we  have  him  !  " 

But  here  a  stream  crossed  the  road,  and  the  stag 
plunged  into  the  water.  The  Czar  was  a  good 
swimmer.  "  Surely  I  shall  take  him  now,"  thought  he. 
''A  little  longer,  and  I  shall  hold  him  by  the  horns." 

So  the  Czar  took  off  his  clothes,  and  into  the  water 
he  plunged  after  the  stag.  The  stag  swam  across  to 
the  opposite  bank,  but  just  as  the  Czar  was  extending 
his  hand  to  seize  him  by  the  horns,  there  was  no 
longer  any  stag  to  be  seen.  It  was  the  angel  who 
had  taken  the  form  of  a  stag.  The  Czar  was  amazed. 
He  looked  about  him  on  every  side,  and  wondered 
where  the  stag  had  gone. 

At  that  moment  he  saw  some  one  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  putting  on  the  Czar's  royal  clothes,  and 
presently  he  mounted  the  (/zar's  own  horse  and  gal- 
loped away.  The  Czar  thought  it  was  some  evil  doer, 
but  it  was  the  self-same  angel,  who  had  now  gone 
away  to  collect  the  huntsmen  and  take  them  home. 
As  for  the  Czar,  he  remained  all  naked  and  solitary 
in  the  forest. 

At  last  he  looked  about  him  and  saw,  far.  far 
away,  smoke  rising  above  the  forest,  and  something 
like  a  dark  cloud  standing  in  the  clear  sky. 

vni.  —  8 


114 

*'  ri-rhaps."  said  hv  lo  hiinsell,  "  that  smoke  is  iVoiu 
my  hunting  paN'ilion." 

So  he  went  in  tiie  direction  of  the  smoke,  and  came 
at  hist  to  a  brickkihi.  The  hiiek  burners  came  I'ortii 
to  meet  him,  and  were  anuized  to  see  a  man  without 
clotliing.  They  saw  that  his  feet  were  lame  and 
bruised,  and  his  body  covered  with  scratches. 

"  Give  me  to  drink,"  said  he,  "  and  I  would  lain 
eat  something  also." 

The  brick  burners  had  pity  on  him ;  they  gave  him 
an  old  tattered  garment  to  wear,  and  a  piece  of  black 
bread  to  eat.  Never  from  the  day  of  his  birth  had 
the  Czar  had  such  a  tasty  meal. 

'*  And  now  speak,  0  man  !  "  said  they ;  "  who  art 
thou  ? " 

"  I'll  tell  you  who  I  am,"  said  he,  when  he  had 
eaten  his  fill ;  '•  I  am  your  Czar.  Lead  me  to  iny 
capital,  and  there  I  will  reward  you !  " 

"  What,  thou  wretched  rogue  !  "  they  cried.  "  Thou 
dost  presume  to  mock  us,  thou  old  ragamuffin, 
and  magnify  thyself  into  a  Czar !  Thou  reward  us. 
indeed ! " 

And  they  looked  at  him  in  amazement  and  scorn. 

"Dare  to  laugh  at  me  again,"  said  he,  "and  I'll 
have  your  heads  chopped  off ! " 

For  he  forgot  himself,  and  thought  he  was  at  home 

"  What !     Thou  !  "  shouted  the  brick  burners,  and 


115 

they  fell  upon  him,  and  beat  him  most  immercifully, 
and  then  they  drove  him  away,  and  olf  he  went, 
groaning,  into  the  forest. 

He  went  on  and  on  till  at  last  he  saw  once  more  a 
smoke  rising  up  out  of  the  wood.    Again  he  thought : 

"  That  is  surely  from  my  hunting  pavilion,"  and 
so  he  went  up  to  it. 

And  behold,  he  had  come  to  another  brickkiln. 
There,  too,  they  liad  pity  upon  and  kindly  treated 
him.  They  gave  him  to  eat  and  to  drink.  They 
also  gave  him  ragged  hose  and  a  tattered  shirt,  for 
they  were  very  poor  people.  They  took  him  to  be  a 
runaway  soldier,  or  some  other  poor  man ;  but  when 
he  had  eaten  his  fill  and  clothed  himself  he  said  to 
them  :  — 

"  I  am  your  Czar !  " 

They  laughed  at  him,  and  again  he  began  to  talk 
roughly  to  the  people.  Then  they  fell  upon  him,  and 
thrashed  him  soundly,  and  drove  him  aw^ay.  And  he 
wandered  all  by  himself  through  the  forest  till  it  was 
night.  Then  he  laid  himself  down  beneath  a  tree, 
and  slept  until  the  morning,  when  he  continued  his 
journey. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  third  brickkiln,  but  he  did 
not  tell  the  brick  burners  there  that  he  was  the  Czar. 
All  he  thought  of  now  was  how  he  might  reach  his 
capital.      These  people  too,  treated  him  kindly,  and. 


seeing  that  his  feet  were  lame  and  hniised  they 
had  compassion  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  pair  of 
very  old  boots.     And  he  asked  them  :  — 

••  Do  ye  know  l)y  which  way  1  can  get  to  the  cap- 
ital?" 

They  told  him  ;  but  it  was  a  long,  long  road  and 
a  weary  journey. 

But  he  followed  the  road  which  they  had  pointed 
out.  He  went  on  and  on  till  he  came  to  a  little 
town,  and  there  the  roadside  sentries  stopped  him. 

•'  Halt !  "  they  cried. 

He  halted. 

"  Whence  art  thou  ?  "  asked  the  soldiers. 

"  T  am  going  to  the  capital,"  answered  the  Czar. 

"  Thou  art  a  vagabond,"  they  cried. 

So  they  took  him  to  the  capital  and  put  him  in  a 
dungeon.  After  a  time  the  custodians  came  round  to 
examine  the  prisoner. 

••  Who  art  thou,  old  man  ?  "  they  asked.  Then  he 
told  them  the  whole  truth. 

"  Once  I  was  the  Czar."  said  he,  and  he  related  all 
that  had  befallen  him.  They  were  amazed,  for  he 
was  not  at  all  like  a  Czar.  For  indeed  he  had  been 
growing  thin  and  haggard  for  a  long  time,  and  his 
beard  was  all  long  and  tangled.  And  yet,  for  all 
that,  he  insisted  that  he  was  the  Czar.  So  they  made 
up  their  minds  that  he  was  crazy,  and  drove  him 


117 

away.      "  Why  should   we   keep  this  fool  forever," 
said  they,  ''  and  waste  the  Czar's  bread  upon  him  ?  " 

Then  they  let  him  go,  and  never  did  any  man  feel 
so  wretched  on  God's  earth  as  did  that  wretched  Czar. 
Willingly  would  he  have  done  any  sort  of  work  if  he 
had  only  known  how,  but  he  had  never  been  used  to 
work,  and  therefore  was  obliged  to  beg  his  bread,  and 
could  scarce  beg  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together.  He  lay  at  night  at  the  first  place  that 
came  to  hand,  sometimes  in  the  tall  grass,  sometimes 
beneath  a  fence. 

"  Who  could  have  thought  that  it  should  ever 
come  to  this  !  "  he  sighed. 

Now  the  angel,  who  had  made  himself  Czar,  had 
gone  home  with  the  huntsmen.  And  no  man  knew 
that  he  was  not  a  Czar  but  an  angel.  The  same 
evening  the  priest  came  to  him  and  said :  — 

"  Do  thy  will,  0  Czar,  and  strike  off  my  head,  for 
I  cannot  blot  out  one  word  of  Holy  Scripture." 

And  the  Czar  said  to  him  :  — 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  for  now  I  know  that  there  is  at 
least  one  priest  in  my  land  who  stands  firm  for  God's 
Word.  I'll  make  thee  the  highest  bisliop  in  this 
realm." 

The  priest  thanked  him,  bowed  down  to  the  eartli, 
and  departed,  marveling. 

"  What    is   this  wonder,"   thought  he,  "  that  the 


118 
haughty     Czar    should     lia\('     lu'come    no    just    aiul 

But  all  nuMi  uiarveled  at  the  change  that  had  coirie 
over  the  ruler,  lie  was  now  mild  and  gracious,  no 
longer  did  he  spend  all  his  days  in  the  forest,  but 
went  about  inquiring  of  his  people  if  any  were 
wronged  or  injured  by  their  neighbors,  and  if  justice 
were  done.  He  took  count  of  all,  and  rebuked  the 
unjust  judges,  and  saw  that  every  man  had  his 
rights.  And  the  people  now  rejoiced  as  much  as 
they  had  grieved  heretofore,  and  justice  was  done 
in  all  the  courts,  and  no  bribes  were  taken.  But 
the  Czar,  the  real  Czar,  gi-ew  more  and  more 
wretched. 

Then,  after  three  years,  an  order  went  forth  from 
the  palace  that  all  the  people  were  to  corue  together 
to  a  great  banquet  given  by  the  Czar  ;  all  were  to  be 
there,  both  rich  and  poor,  both  high  and  lowly.  And 
all  the  people  came,  and  the  unhappy  Czar  came  too. 
And  so  many  long  tables  were  set  out  in  the  Czar's 
courtyard  that  all  the  people  praised  God  when  they 
saw  the  glad  sight. 

They  all  sat  down  at  table  and  ate  and  drank, 
and  the  Czar  himself  and  his  courtiers  distributed  the 
meat  and  drink  to  the  guests  as  much  as  they  would, 
but  to  the  unfortunate  Czar  they  gave  a  double  por- 
tion of  everything.     When  all  had  eaten  and  drunk 


119 

their  fill,  the  Czar  that  ruled  over  the  land  began  to 
inquire  whether  any  had  suffered  injustice  or  wrong. 
And  when  the  people  began  to  disperse,  the  Czar 
stood  at  the  gate  and  gave  to  every  one  a  piece  of 
money. 

And'  again,  after  three  years,  he  made  yet  another 
banquet,  and  proclaimed  that  all  should  come,  both 
rich  and  poor.  And  all  the  people  came  and  ate  and 
drank  and  bowed  low  before  the  angel  Czar  and 
thanked  him  and  made  ready  to  depart.  The  unlucky 
Czar  was  also  on  the  point  of  going,  when  the  angel 
Czar  stopped  him,  and  took  him  aside  into  the  palace, 
and  said  to  him  :  — 

"  Lo  !  God  hath  tried  thee  and  chastised  thy  pride 
these  many  years.  But  me  he  sent  to  teach  thee  that 
a  Czar  must  have  regard  to  the  complaints  of  his 
people.  So  thou  wast  made  poor  and  a  vagabond 
that  thou  mightest  pick  up  wisdom,  if  but  a  little. 
Look  now,  that  thou  doest  good  to  thy  people,  and 
judgest  righteous  judgment,  as  now  thou  shalt  be 
Czar  again,  but  I  must  return  to  heaven."  And 
when  the  angel  had  said  this  he  was  no  more  to 
be  seen. 

Then  the  Czar  prayed  gratefully  to  God,  and  from 
henceforth  he  ruled  his  people  justly,  as  the  angel 
had  bidden  him. 

Fru)ii  "  CoHHdck  Fairy  idUx  itnij  FoU-   Talen.'" 


120 


TIIR    SKA    VOVAdE 

1  WAS  boni  in  tho  Kast  Indies.  I  lost  my  father 
and  niotluT  wlicn  1  was  very  young.  At  the  age  of 
live,  my  relations  tlioiioht.  it  proper  tliat  I  should  be 
sent  to  Kughiud  for  my  education.  1  was  to  be  in- 
trusted to  the  care  of  a  young  woman,  but  just  as  1 
had  taken  leave  of  my  friends  and  we  were  about 
to  take  our  passage,  she  suddenly  fell  sick  and  could 
not  go  on  board. 

The  sliij)  was  at  the  very  point  of  sailing,  and  it 
was  the  last  that  was  to  sail  for  the  season.  At 
length  the  captain  prevailed  upon  my  friends  to  let 
me  embark  alone.  There  was  no  possibility  of  get- 
ting any  other  attendant  for  me  in  the  short  time 
allotted  for  our  preparation,  and  the  opportunity  of 
going  by  that  ship  was  thought  too  valuable  to  be 
lost.  No  ladies  happened  to  be  going,  and  so  I 
Avas  consigned  to  the  care  of  the  captain  and  his 
crew, — rough  and  unaccustomed  attendants  for  a 
young  creature  delicately  brought  up  as  I  had  been. 

The  unpolished  sailors  were  my  nursery  mates  and 
my  waiting  women.  Everything  was  done  by  the 
captain  and  the  men  to  accommodate  me  and  make 
me  comfortable.  I  had  a  little  room  made  out  of  the 
cabin,  which  was  to  be  considered  as  my  room,  and 
nobody  might  enter  it. 


121 

The  first  mate  had  a  great  character  for  bravery 
and  all  sailorlike  accomplish  merits ;  but  with  all  this, 
he  had  a  gentleness  of  manner,  and  a  pale,  feminine 
cast  of  face,  from  ill  health  and  a  weakly  constitu- 
tion, which  subjected  him  to  some  ridicule  from  the 
officers,  and  caused  him  to  be  named  Betsy.  He  did 
not  much  like  the  appellation  ;  but  he  submitted  to 
it,  saying  that  those  who  gave  him  a  woman's  name 
well  knew  that  he  had  a  man's  heart,  and  that  in  the 
face  of  danger  he  would  go  as  far  as  any  man.  To 
this  young  man,  whose  real  name  was  Charles  Atkin- 
son, the  care  of  me  was  especially  intrusted. 

Betsy  was  proud  of  his  charge,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  acquitted  himself  with  great  diligence  and 
adroitness  through  the-  whole  voyage.  This  recon- 
ciled me,  in  some  measure,  to  the  want  of  a  maid, 
which  I  had  been  used  to.  But  I  was  a  manageable 
girl  at  all  times  and  ga\e  nobody  much  trouble. 

I  have  not  knowlerlge  enough  to  give  an  account 
of  my  voyage,  or  to  remember  the  names  of  the  seas 
we  passed  through,  of  the  lands  which  we  touched 
upon  in  our  course.  The  chief  thing  I  can  remember 
was  Atkinson  taking  me  up  on  deck  to  see  the  whales 
playing  about  in  the  sea.  There  was  one  great  whale 
that  came  bounding  up  out  of  the  sea ;  then  he 
would  dive  into  it  again,  and  then  he  would  come 
up  at  a  distance    where   nobody  expected   him  ;  and 


1-22 

anotlior  ^vh;llo  was  following;  after  him.  Atkinson 
said  thcv  were  ai  play,  and  that  the  lesser  whale 
kept  the  bigger  whale  company  all  through  the  wide 
seas.  But  I  thought  it  frightful  kind  of  play,  for 
every  minute  I  expected  they  would  come  up  to  our 
ship  and  toss  it.  But  Atkinson  said  that  a  whale 
was  a  gentle  creature,  that  it  was  a  sort  of  sea 
elephant,  and  that  the  most  powerful  creatures  in 
nature  are  always  the  least  hurtful. 

Many  other  things  he  used  to  show  me  wdieii  he 
was  not  on  watch  or  doing  some  duty  for 'the  ship. 
No  one  was  more  attentive  to  his  duty  than  he ;  but 
at  sueh  times  as  he  had  leisure  he  would  show  me  all 
the  pretty  sea  sights,  —  the  dolphins  and  the  por- 
poises that  came  before  a  storm,  and  all  the  colors 
which  the  sea  changed  to,  —  how  sometimes  it  was  a 
deep  blue,  and  then  a  deep  green,  and  sometimes  it 
would  seem  all  on  fire.  All  these  various  appear- 
ances he  w^ould  show  me  and  attempt  to  explain  the 
reason  for  them  to  me  as  well  as  my  young  capacity 
would  admit  of. 

There  were  a  lion  and  a  tiger  on  board,  going  to 
England  as  a  present  to  the  king,  and  it  was  a  great 
diversion  for  Atkinson  and  me  to  see  the  ways  of 
these  beasts  in  their  dens,  and  how  venturous  the 
sailors  were  in  putting  their  hands  through  the  gates 
and  patting  their  rough  coats. 


123 

Some  of  the  men  had  monkeys  which  ran  loose 
about ;  and  the  sport  was  for  the  men  to  lose  them 
and  find  them  again.  The  monkeys  would  run  up 
the  shrouds  and  pass  from  rope  to  rope  with  ten 
times  greater  alacrity  than  the  most  experienced 
sailor  could  follow  them.  Sometimes  they  would 
hide  themselves  in  the  most  unthought-of  places, 
and  when  they  were  found  they  would  grin  and 
make  mouths.  Atkinson  described  to  me  the  ways  of 
these  little  animals  in  their  native  woods,  for  he  had 
seen  them.  Oh,  how  many  ways  he  thought  of  to 
amuse  me  in  that  long  voyage  ! 

Sometimes  he  would  describe  to  me  the  odd  shapes 
and  varieties  of  fishes  that  were  in  the  sea ;  and  tell 
me  tales  of  the  sea  monsters  that  lay  hid  at  the 
bottom  and  were  seldom  seen  by  men  ;  and  what 
a  curious  sight  it  would  be  if  our  eyes  could  be  sharp- 
ened to  behold  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  sea  at  once, 
swimming  in  the  great  deeps,  as  plain  as  we  see  the 
gold  and  silver  fish  in  a  bowl .  of  glass.  With  such 
notions  he  enlarged  my  infant  capacity  to  take  in 
many  things. 

When,  in  foul  weather,  I  was  terrified  at  the 
motion  of  the  vessel,  as  it  rocked  backwards  and 
forwards,  he  would  still  my  fears  and  tell  me  that  I 
used  to  be  rocked  so  once  in  a  cradle  ;  and  that  the 
sea  was  God's  bed  and  the  ship  our  cradle,  and  we 


T24 

were  as  safe  in  that  greater  motiou  as  when  we  felt 
that  lesser  one  in  our  little  wooden  sleeping  places. 
When  the  wind  was  up  and  sang  through  the  sails 
and  disturbed  me  with  its  violent  clamor,  he  would 
call  it  music,  and  bid  me  hark  to  the  sea  organ;  and 
with  that  name  he  quieted  my  tendci'  apprehensions. 

When  1  looked  around  with  a  monrntiil  face,  he 
would  enter  into  my  thoughts  and  tell  me  pretty 
stories  of  his  mothei-  and  sisters,  and  a  cousin 'that  he 
loved  better  than  his  sisters,  whom  he  called  Jenny. 
One  time,  and  never  but  once,  he  told  me  that 
Jenny  had  promised  to  be  his  wife  if  ever  he  re- 
turned to  England  :  but  that  he  had  his  doubts 
whether  he  should  live  to  get  home.  This  made 
me  cry  bitterly. 

The  captain  and  all  were  singularly  kind  to  me 
and  strove  to  make  u])  for  my  uneasy  and  unnatural 
situation.  The  boatswain  would  pipe  for  my  diver- 
sion, and  the  sailor  boy  would  climb  the  dangerous 
imast  for  my  sport.  The  rough  foremastman  would 
never  willingly  appear  before  me  till  he  had  combed 
his  long  black  hair  smooth  and  sleek,  so  as  not  to 
terrify  me.  The  officers  got  up  a  sort  of  play  for  my 
amusement ;  and  Atkinson,  or,  as  they  called  him, 
Betsy,  acted  the  heroine  of  the  piece.  All  ways  that 
could  be  contrived  were  thought  upon  to  reconcile 
me  to  mv  lot. 


12.^ 

I  was  the  universal  favorite ;  I  do  not  know  how 
deservedly,  but  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  alone. 
Had  I  come  o\er  with  relations  or  attendants,  I 
should  have  excited  no  particular  curiosity ;  I  should 
have  required  no  uncommon  attentions.  I  was  one 
little  woman  among  a  crew  of  men  ;  and  I  believe 
the  homage  (which  I  have  read)  that  men  univer- 
sally pay  to  women,  was  in  this  case  directed  to  me 
in  the  absence  of  all  other  womankind.  I  do  not 
know  how  that  may  be  ;  but  I  was  a  little  princess 
among  them,  and  I  was  not  six  years  old. 

I  remember  the  first  drawback  which  happened  to 
my  comfort  was  Atkinson's  not  appearing  the  whole 
of  one  day.  The  captain  tried  to  reconcile  me  by 
saying  that  Mr.  Atkinson  was  confined  to  his  cabin  ; 
that  he  was  not  quite  well,  but  a  day  or  two  would 
restore  him.  I  begged  to  be  taken  in  to  see  him,  but 
this  was  not  granted. 

At  length,  by  the  desire  of  Atkinson  himself,  as  I 
have  since  learned,  I  was  permitted  to  go  into  his 
cabin  and  see  him.  He  was  sitting  up.  apparently  in 
a  state  of  great  exhaustion ;  but  his  face  lighted  up 
when  he  saw  me  and  he  kissed  me,  and  told  me  that 
he  was  going  a  great  voyage  far  longer  than  that 
which  we  had  passed  together,  and  he  never  should 
come  back.  And  though  I  was  so  young,  I  under- 
stood well  enough  that  he  meant  this  of  his  death; 


126 

anil  I  tried  sadly.  But  ho  comforted  me  and  told  me 
that  1  must  he  his  little  executrix  and  perform  his 
last  will,  and  hear  his  last  words  to  his  mother  and 
sisters  and  to  his  cousin  Jenny,  whom  I  should  see 
in  a  short  time.  He  gave  me  his  hlessing  as  a 
father  would  bless  his  child  ;  and  he  sent  a  kiss  by 
me  to  his  mother  and  sisters ;  and  he  made  me  prom- 
ise that  I  would  go  and  see  thena  when  I  got  to 
England. 

Soon  after  this,  he  died ;  but  I  w^as  in  another  part 
of  the  ship  and  I  was  not  told  of  his  death  till  we 
got  to  shore  a  few  days  after.-  Oh,  what  a  grief  it 
was  when  I  learned  that  I  had  lost  an  old  shipmate 
who  had  made  an  irksome  situation  so  bearable  by 
his  kind  assiduities  !  And  to  think  that  he  was  gone, 
and  I  could  never  repay  him  for  his  kindness ! 

When  I  had  been  a  year  and  a  half  in  England, 
the  captain,  who  had  made  another  voyage  to  India 
and  back,  prevailed  upon  my  friends  to  let  him  intro- 
duce me  to  Atkinson's  mother  and  sisters.  Jenny 
was  no  more  :  she  had  died  in  the  interval,  and  I 
never  saw  her. 

In  the  mother  and  sisters  of  this  excellent  young 
man  I  have  found  the  most  valuable  friends  I  possess 
on  this  side  of  the  great  ocean.  From  them  I  have 
learned  passages  of  his  former  life ;  and  this,  in  partic- 
ular,—  that  the  illness  of  which  he  died  was  brought 


127 

on  by  a  wound  which  he  got  in  a  desperate  attempt, 
when  he  was  quite  a  bo}^,  to  defend  his  captain 
against  a  superior  force.  By  his  premature  valor 
in  spiriting  the  men,  they  finally  succeeded  in  repuls- 
ing the  enemy. 

This  was  that  Atkinson,  who,  from  his  pale  and 
feminine  appearance,  was  called  Betsy ;  this  was  he 
who  condescended  to  play  the  handmaid  to  a  little, 
unaccompanied  orphan  that  fortune  had  cast  upon 
the  care  of  a  rough  sea  captain  and  his  rougher  crew. 

—  Charles  Lamb. 

From  "  Eliana." 

THE   LESSON   OF   THE   FERN 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern  leaf  green  and  slender  — 
Veining  delicate  and  fibers  tender  — 

Waving,  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low; 
Rushes  tall  and  mosi*,  and  grass  grew  round  it, 
Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it, 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night  and  crowned  it, 

But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that  way ; 

Earth  was  young,  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 


V2S 

Mammoth  croatures  stalked  across  the  plain; 
Nature  reveled  in  grand  mysteries, 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these, 
Did  not  numher  with  the  hills  and  trees ; 

Only  grew  and  waved  its  sweet  wild  way  — 

No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth  one  time  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  hanged  the  mighty  motion 

Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean ; 
Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood ; 

Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft,  moist  clay, 

Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away; 

0,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day ! 
0,  the  agony !     0,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless  ?     Lost  ?     There  came  a  thoughtful  man, 
Searching  nature's  secrets,  far  and  deep ; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  I'ocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencilings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings.  leafage,  fibers,  clear  and  fine, 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line ! 

So.  T  think,  God  hides  some  souls  away, 

Sweetly  to  surprise  us  the  last  day. 

—  Mary  L.  Bolles  Branch. 


129 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

"  The  most  beloved  of  English  writers,"  —  what 
a  title  that  is  for  a  man!  Oliver  Goldsmith,  a  wild 
youth,  wayward,  but  full  of  tenderness  and  affection, 
quits  the  country  village  where  his  boyhood  has  been 
passed  in  happy  musing,  in  fond  longing  to  see  the  great 
world,  and  to  achieve  a  name  and  a  fortune  for  him- 
self. 

After  years  of  dire  struggle,  of  neglect  and  po\erty, 
—  his  heart  turning  back  as  fondly  to  his  native  place 
as  it  had  longed  eagerly  for  change  when  sheltered 
there,  —  he  writes  a  book  and  a  poem,  full  of  the 
recollections  and  feelings  of  home,  —  he  paints  the 
friends  and  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  peoples  Auburn 
and  Wakefield  with  remembrances  of  Lissoy.  Wander 
he  must,  but  he  carries  away  a  home-relic  with  him, 
and  dies  with  it  on  his  breast. 

His  nature  is  truant ;  in  repose,  it  longs  for  change, 
as,  on  the  journey,  it  looks  back  for  friends  and  quiet. 
He  passes  to-day  in  building  an  air  castle  for  to-morrow, 
or  in  writing  yesterday's  elegy ;  and  he  would  fly  away 
this  hour,  but  that  a  cage  and  necessity  keep  him. 
What  is  the  charm  of  his  verse,  of  his  style,  and 
humor,  —  his  sweet  regrets,  his  delicate  compassion, 
his  soft  smile,  his  tremulous  sympathy,  the  weakness 
which  he  owns?     Your  love  for  him  is  half  pity. 

VIII.  —  9 


l;50 

You  come,  hot  and  tirod,  IVoiii  the  day's  battle,  and 
this  sweet  nimstrel  sings  tu  you.  Who  could  harm 
tlie  kind,  vagrant  harper?  Whom  did  he  ever  hurt? 
lie  carries  no  weapon,  save  the  harp  on  which  he 
|)la\s  to  you,  and  with  which  he  delights  great  and 
liumble,  young  and  old,  the  captains  in  the  tents, 
or  the  soldiers  round  the  fire,  or  the  women  and 
children  in  the  villages,  at  whose  porches  he  stops 
and  sings  his  simple  songs  of  love  and  beauty.  With 
that  sweet  story,  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  he  has 
found  entry  into  every  castle  and  every  hamlet  in 
Europe.  Not  one  of  us,  however  busy  or  hard,  but, 
once  or  twice  in  our  lives,  has  passed  an  evening 
w  ith  him,  and  undergone  the  charm  of  his  delight- 
ful music. 

Think  of  him,  reckless,  thriftless,  vain  —  if  you 
like  —  but  merciful,  gentle,  generous,  full  of  love 
and  pity.  Think  of  the  wonderful  and  unanimous 
response  of  aifection  with  which  the  world  has  paid 
back  the  love  he  gave  it.  His  humor  delights  ns 
still ;  his  song  is  fresh  and  beautiful  as  when  first 
he  charmed  with  it ;  his  very  weaknesses  are  be- 
loved and  familiar,  —  his  benevolent  spirit  seems 
still  to  smile  upon  us,  to  do  gentle  kindnesses,  to 
succor  with  sweet  charity,  to  soothe,  caress,  and  for- 
give ;  to  plead  with  the  fortunate  for  the  unhappy 
and  the  poor.  —  W.  M.  Thackeray. 


131 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   AUBURN 

Sweet  AuBURisr !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain ; 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed ; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please ; 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm ! 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play ! 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
>Siicceeding  sports  the  mirthful  baud  inspired  : 


13-2 

Tlu'  (lanciiiu-  i)air  that  simply  sought  renown, 

Hy  lioKliiig  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

Tlu'  swain,  uiistriistless  of  his  smutted  face, 

Wliile  secret  hiughter  tittered  round  the  place; 

riic  bashful  virgin's  sidel(mg  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove  — 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet   village !    sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please. 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

THE   VILLAGE    PREACHER 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns,  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had    changed,   nor  wished   to   change,   his 
place. 

Unskillful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, — 
^lore  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 


133 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wand' rings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
^yhose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away,  — 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered   his   crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were 
won ! 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave,  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all : 

And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  her  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 


184 

I')t'->i(lt>  tlie  IhmI  where  i)artiiin-  life  was  laid, 
Ami  st)n\)\v,  guilt,  and  [)aiu  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  clianipion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  tied  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  liis  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway  j 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile ; 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed  ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven ; 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


135 


THE   VILLAGE   SCHOOLMASTER 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprolitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school  — 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind ;  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  v/onder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 


136 

But  past  is  all  his  fame  :   the  very  spot 
Where  mauy  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

—  Olivkk  Goldsmith. 

A    GREAT    PFTTLOSOPHER 

Socrates  was  of  humble  birth.  He  was  born  in 
Greece  nearly  five  hundred  years  before  Christ,  and 
lived  for  seventy  years.  His  father  was  a  sculptor, 
and  he  followed  the  same  profession. 

We  know  very  little  about  the  events  of  his  life 
except  that  he  served  as  a  soldier  in  three  campaigns, 
that  he  strictly  obeyed  the  laws  of  his  country,  and 
once  when  acting  as  a  judge  refused  at  the  peril  of 
his  life  to  perform  an  unjust  deed. 

A  striking  picture  is  given  us  of  the  personal 
appearance  of  this  great  philosopher.  His  ugliness 
of  face  was  a  matter  of  jest  in  Athens.  He  had  a 
flat  nose,  thick  lips,  and  prominent  eyes.  Yet  he 
was  as  stronar  as  he  was  uo;lv.  Few  Athenians  could 
equal  him  in  strength  and  endurance.  While  serving 
as  a  soldier  he  was  able  to  bear  heat  and  cold,  hun- 
ger and  fatiu;ue  in  a  manner  that  astonished  his  com- 
panions.  He  went  barefoot  in  all  weather,  and 
wore  the  same  clothing  winter  and  summer.  He 
lived  on  the  simplest  food,  and  it  was  his  constant 
aim  to  limit  his  wants,  and  to  avoid  all  excesses. 


188 

Socf;it(\s  j)ossessed  the  higliest  and  noblest  quali- 
ties ui"  mind.  Naturally  lie  had  a  violent  temper,  but 
he  held  it  under  severe  control.  In  depth  of  thought, 
;iii(l  in  powers  of  arguuicnl,  lie  stands  in  the  very 
tirst  ranks  of  the  teachei's  of  luaiikind. 

From  morning  till  night  Socrates  might  be  seen  in 
the  streets  and  public  places  engaged  in  endless  talk, 
—  prattling,  his  enemies  called  it.  In  the  early 
morning  his  pale  face  and  his  sturdy  figure,  shabbily 
dressed,  were  familiar  visions  in  the  public  walks  and 
in  the  Athenian  schools.  At  the  hour  when  the 
market  place  was  most  crowded  Socrates  would  be 
there,  walking  about  among  the  booths  and  tables, 
and  talking  to  every  one  that  would  listen  to  him. 
Thus  was  his  whole  day  spent.  He  was  ready  to 
talk  with  any  one,  old  or  young,  rich  or  poor. 

None  seemed  to  tire  of  hearing  this  wise  man,  and 
many  sought  him  in  his  haunts  eager  to  learn  from 
him.  Maii}^,  indeed,  came  from  other  cities  of  Greece, 
drawn  to  Athens  by  his  fame,  and  anxious  to  hear 
the  wonderful  teacher.  These  became  known  as  his 
scholars  or  disciples,  though  he  had  nothing  like  a 
school,  and  received  no  pay  for  his  teaching. 

The  talk  of  Socrates  was  never  idle  nor  meaningless 
chat.  He  felt  that  he  had  a  special  mission  to  fulfill, 
and  he  declared  that  a  divine  voice , spoke  to  him  and 
kept  him  from  unwise  acts  or  sayings.     It  had  been 


139 

said  that  no  man  was  wiser  than  Socrates.  To  find 
out  if  this  was  true  he  questioned  everybody  every- 
where, seeking  to  learn  what  other  men  knew.  Lead- 
ing them  on  by  question  after  question  he  usually 
found  that  they  knew  very  little. 

But  his  keen  questions  which  exposed  the  igno- 
rance of  so  many  did  not  make  him  friends.  In 
truth  he  made  many  enemies.  All  this  went  on 
until  some  of  them  made  the  charge  that  he  did  not 
believe  in  the  gods  of  Athens,  and  that*  he  misled 
young  men.  "  The  penalty  due  for  these  crimes," 
they  said,  "  is  death." 

Socrates  had  now  so  many  enemies  that  the  accusa- 
tion was  dangerous.  When  brought  before  the  coun- 
cil the  philosopher  pleaded  his  own  cause,  but  in  his 
defense  he  made  his  case  worse.  He  said  things  that 
provoked  his  judges. 

^'  There  is  one  true  God,"  he  declared,  "  who  gov- 
erns the  world,  and  sends  me  the  inward  voice  which 
tells  me  the  way  in  which  I  should  walk.  This 
divine  voice  I  try  to  obey  to  the  utmost  of  my  power. 
Because  I  am  thought  to  have  some  ability  in  teach- 
ing youth,  0  my  judges!  is  that  a  reason  why  I 
should  suffer  death  ?  You  may  decree  that  my  body 
must  die,  but  hurt  me  you  cannot."  Thus  he  ended 
his  defense. 

Socrates  did    not   seem   to  care  what  verdict  his 


140 

jiulges  broiiglit.  He  had  no  fear  of  death  and  would 
not  trouble  iiiniself  to  say  a  word  to  preserve  his  life. 
The  voice  within  him  would  not  peruiit  him  to  do  so. 
lie  was  sentenced  to  drink  the  poison  of  hemlock, 
and  was  imprisoned  for  thirty  days,  during  which 
time  he  conversed  in  his  old,  calm  manner  with  his 
friends. 

Some  of  his  disciples  planned  for  his  escape,  but 
he  refused  to  fly.  If  his  fellow-citizens  wished  to 
take  his  life,  he  would  not  oppose  their  wills.  One 
of  his  friends  began  to  weep  at  the  thought  of  his 
dying  innocent.  "  What !  "  he  said,  "  would  you 
think  it  better  for  me  to  die  guilty?" 

On  the  last  day  he  drank  the  hemlock  as  calmly 
as  though  it  were  his  usual  beverage,  and  talked  on 
quietly  until  death  sealed  his  lips.  Thus  died  the 
first  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  moral  philosophers, 
and  a  man  without  a  parallel  in  all  the  history  of 
mankind. 

"  Of  all  we  have  ever  known,"   said  his  famous 

pupil  Plato,  "  Socrates  was  in  death  the  noblest,  — 

in  life  the  wisest  and  best." 

—  Charles  Morris. 

From  "  Historical  Tales." 


141 

THE   STORY   OF   LAFAYETTE 

I.     HIS    BOYHOOD 

The  chateau  of  Chavaniac  was  in  the  province  of 
Auvergne,  in  the  south  part  of  France.  It  was  a  lofty 
castle,  with  towers  and  narrow  windows  from  which 
cannon  once  frowned  down  upon  besieging  foes. 
There  was  a  deep  moat  around  it,  with  a  bridge 
which  was  drawn  up  in  time  of  war,  so  that  no  man,  on 
horseback  or  on  foot,  could  pass  in  at  the  gate  without 
permission  of  the  guard. 

Low  hills,  crowned  with  vineyards,  stood  near  the 
castle,  and  beyond  the  hills  stretched  mountains 
whose  peaks  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky.  In  all  France 
there  was  not  a  more  charming  spot  than  Chavaniac ; 
and  among  all  the  nobles  of  the  court  there  was  no 
braver  man  than  its  master,  the  Marquis  de  Lafayette. 

One  day  the  drawbridge  was  leL  down  over  the 
moat,  and  the  gallant  marquis  rode  away  to  the  war 
in  Germany.  After  taking  part  in  several  engage- 
ments, he  was  shot  through  the  heart  in  a  skirmish  at 
Minden.  His  comrades  buried  him  on  the  field.  The 
drums  were  muffled,  the  band  played  a  funeral  dirge, 
and  three  rounds  of  musketry  announced  that  the 
hero's  body  had  been  lowered  into  the  grave. 

In  the  midst  of  the  mourning  for  the  dead  marquis, 
on  September  6,  1757,  his  only  son  was  born. 


142 

The  little  oipliaii.  according  to  the  custom  in  France, 
received  a.  long  name  at  his  christening,  but  his  loving 
mother  said  that  his  everyday  name  should  ))e  Gilbert 
de  Lafayette. 

When  Gilbert  was  old  enough,  his  mother  walked 
with  him  instead  of  leaving  him  to  the  care  of  serv- 
ants. Sometimes  they  climbed  a  high  hill  to  see  the 
sun  set  over  the  towers  of  the  chateau.  Then  she  told 
him  how  the  De  Lafayettes,  long  before  Columbus 
discovered  America,  had  helped  to  banish  the  English 
kings  from  France,  and  how  his  own  father  had  died 
for  the  glory  of  his  country. 

Sometimes  as  they  walked  through  the  halls  of  the 
castle,  she  showed  Gilbert  the  coats  of  mail  which  his 
ancestors  had  worn ;  and  she  told  him  about  the 
swords  and  banners  and  other  trophies  which  the  De 
Lafayettes  had  won  in  battle. 

^*  I  would  not  have  you  less  brave  than  tHey,  my 
son,"  she  would  say. 

The  boy  longed  for  the  time  to  come  when  he 
might  show  his  mother  how  very  brave  he  was.  He 
grew  tall  and  strong,  and  carried  himself  like  a  prince. 
He  wanted  to  be  worthy  of  his  great  ancestors. 

The  year  he  was  eight  there  was  much  excitement 
about  a  wolf  which  prowled  in  the  forest,  killing  the 
sheep  in  the  pastures  and  frightening  the  peasants 
nearly  out  of  their  wits.      Gilbert  made  this  wolf  the 


143 

object  of  all  his  walks.  He  would  persuade  his  mother 
to  sit  in  some  shad}^  spot  while  he  should  go  a  little 
way  into  the  forest. 

"  I  will  return  in  an  instant,  dear  mother, "  he 
always  said ;  and,  lest  he  might  alarm  her,  he  walked 
quite  slowly  until  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  him  from 
view.     Then  he  marched  quickly  into  the  dark  wood. 

He  did  this  for  many  days,  seeing  only  frisking 
squirrels  and  harmless  rabbits.  But  one  morning,  as 
he  sped  along  a  narrow  path,  his  eyes  wide  open  and 
his  ears  alert  to  catch  every  sound,  he  heard  a  crack- 
ing in  the  underbrush. 

The  wolf  was  coming !  He  was  sure  of  it.  His 
mind  was  made  up  in  an  instant.  He  would  spring 
forward  quicker  than  lightning  and  blind  it  with  his 
coat,  while  with  his  arms  he  would  choke  it  to  death. 

"  It  will  struggle  hard,"  he  thought.  "  Its  feet  will 
scratch  me,  but  I  shall  not  mind ;  and  when  all  is  over 
I  shall  drag  it  to  the  feet  of  my  mother.  Then  she 
will  know,  and  the  peasants  will  know,  that  I  can  rid 
the  country  of  these  pests." 

He  stood  listening.  His  breath  came  fast.  Again 
he  heard  the  breaking  of  the  bushes.  "  I  ought  first 
to  sm-prise  the  beast  by  coming  upon  it  quickly, "  he 
whispered. 

He  tore  off  his  coat  and  held  it  firmly  as  he  hurried 
on.     Soon  he  saw  the  shaggy  hide,  and  the  great  eyes 


144 

shining  through  the  tliicket.  He  leaped  forward  with 
outstretched  coat,  and — what  do  you  think?  —  he 
clasped  in  liis  amis  a  calf  that  had  strayed  from  the 
barnyard ! 

It  was  a  rude  disappointment  for  the  boy.  He 
returned  to  his  mother,  who  was  already  alarmed  at 
his  absence,  and  confessed  that  he  had  tried  to  kill 
the  wolf,  but  had  found  only  a  calf. 

''  Ah,  you  were  brave,  my  son,"  she  cried ;  "  I  am 
quite  sure  that  you  would  have  ended  the  days  of  that 
terrible  wolf  had  he  but  given  you  the  chance." 

II.     LAFAYETTE   AND   AMERICA 

The  young  Marquis  de  Lafayette  was  a  born  soldier. 
He  loved  to  hear  the  boom  of  cannon  and  the  rattle 
of  muskets  on  the  drill  ground.  When  he  was  just 
nineteen  years  old  he  became  a  captain  of  an  artil- 
lery company. 

But  he  said  to  himself,  "  Kings  make  war  for  con- 
quest. I  wish  that  I  might  enlist  and  serve  for  a 
more  worthy  object." 

That  same  year  an  English  nobleman,  the  royal 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  chanced  to  visit  France.  He  had 
displeased  his  brother.  King  George  III,  and  for  that 
reason  had  been  banished  from  England. 

Lafayette  attended  a  dinner  party  given  in  honor 
of  the  royal  guest.     While  they  sat  about  the  table, 


146 

eating  and  drinking,  a  guard  announced  that  a  mes- 
senger was  at  the  door  with  dispatches  for  his  royal 
Highness. 

*'  Ah,  news  from  England  !  "  exclaimed  the   duke. 

''  Show  the  man  in, "  ordered  the  officer  in  com- 
mand. 

A  courier,  with  dust  on  his  garments,  entered  the 
room,  and,  bowing  low,  delivered  a  bundle  of  letters. 

"  I  beg  your  Highness  to  read  without  ceremony,  " 
said  the  commander. 

The  duke  glanced  over  the  papers  for  some  time  in 
silence.  He  looked  grave.  At  last  he  said,  ''  My 
courier  has  brought  dispatches  about  our  colonies  in 
America." 

"  Ah,"  said  one.  "  are  the  colonies  acting  badly  ?  " 

"Yes,  they  demand  to  vote  their  own  taxes." 

"  How  absurd  !  Why,  the  people  in  France  do  not 
vote  their  own  taxes." 

"  You  must  know,"  said  the  duke,  "  that  many 
years  ago  one  of  the  kings  of  England  gave  a  charter 
to  our  people  which  granted  them  the  right  to  impose 
their  own  taxes.  They  now  elect  representatives  to 
a  parliament,  where  they  decide  how  much  money 
should  be  used  by  the  government." 

"  What  do  these  Americans  complain  of,  then  ? " 
asked  Lafayette. 

"  Taxation  without  representation,"   answered   the 

VIII.  — 10 


146 

(liiko.  •' Tlicv  insist  that,  as  loyal  suhjects,  they 
should  be  allowed  either  to  send  representatives  to 
our  parliament,  or  have  a  parliament  of  their  own. 
Neither  privilege  has  been  granted.  Our  parliament 
imposes  taxes  on  them,  and  when  they  refuse  to  pay 
the  taxes  the  king  sends  soldiers  to  force  them  to  do 
so.  These  dispatches  inform  me  that  the  rebels  have 
driven  our  troops  out  of  a  town  called  Boston,  and 
that  deleg-ates  from  the  thirteen  colonies  have  met  at 
another  town  called  Philadelphia  and  adopted  a 
declaration  of  independence."  After  a  pause,  the 
duke  added,  '•  I  am  not  so  sure,  gentlemen,  but  the 
Americans  are  in  the  right.  They  are  fighting  as 
freeborn  Englishmen." 

"  The  Americans  are  in  the  right,"  said  Lafayette 
to  himself  ;  and,  while  the  other  officers  were  making 
merry,  he  was  silent.  As  soon  as  he  could  do  so,  he 
excused  himself  from  the  table.  He  hastened  to  his 
room  and  locked  the  door. 

'•'  This  is,  indeed,  the  hour  I  have  sought,"  he 
murmured. 

He  sat  down  to  think.  Presently  he  arose  and  paced 
the  floor  until  it  was  almost  morning.  When,  at  last, 
he  threw  himself  on  the  bed  to  sleep,  he  had  resolved 
to  leave  the  pleasures  of  rank  and  fortune,  that  he 
might  use  his  sword  in  the  defense  of  liberty. 

About  this  time  the  American  Congress  sent  Silas 


147 


148 

Deane  to  France  to  seek  aid ;  and  Lafayette  asked 
Baron  do  Kalb  to  go  with  liini  to  visit  the  envoy. 

l)e  Kalb,  who  conld  speak  both  English  and  French, 
told  Silas  Deane  that  tlie  Marquis  de  Lafayette  wished 
to  join  the  American  army. 

'•  We  have  no  money  to  pay  our  officers,"  said 
Deane. 

''I  will  serve  without  money,"  repeated  De  Kalb 
after  Lafayette. 

"We  have  no  ship  to  carry  you  or  your  men," 
said  Deane. 

"  I  will  buy  a  ship,"  was  the  answer. 

Still  the  American  hesitated  to  accept  the  services 
of  such  a  boyish-looking  officer. 

But  in  the  end  Silas  Deane  gave  Lafayette  a  con- 
tract to  sign,  in  which  Lafayette  promised  to  serve 
in  the  army  of  the  United  States  whenever  he  was 
wanted. 

When  the  venerable  Benjamin  Franklin  came  to 
Paris,  Lafayette  was  the  first  to  greet  him.  He  was 
enchanted  with  the  famous  philosopher,  whose  simple 
manners  and  plain  dress  befitted  well  the  herald  of  a 
republic, 

"  Now%  indeed,  is  our  time  of  need,"  said  Franklin. 

Lafayette  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  bought  a 
ship  and  ordered  it  to  be  equipped. 

The  voyage  across  the  ocean  was  stormy  and  long. 


149 

Lafayette  spent  most  of  the  time  trying  to  learn  to 
speak  English. 

His  good  ship  Victory  cast  anchor  near  Charleston, 
South  Carolina,  and  the  party  landed  about  midnight. 

They  found  shelter  at  a  farmhouse,  and,  on 
the  following  day,  proceeded .  to  Charleston.  There 
Lafayette  purchased  carriages  and  horses  to  ride  nine 
hundred  miles  to  Philadelphia,  where  the  Continental 
Congress  was  in  session.  When  the  carriages  broke 
down  because  of  the  bad  roads,  the  officers  mounted 
the  horses  and  continued  their  journey. 

"  I  am  more  determined  than  ever,"  he  said  to 
De  Kalb,  "  to  help  these  people  preserve  the  liberties 
they  have  enjoyed." 

He  reached  Philadelphia  on  July  27,  1777. 


III.     LAFAYETTE   AND   WASHINGTON 

When  Lafayette  first  met  Washington  he  knew 
him  at  once  by  his  noble  face.  Washington  invited 
the  young  Frenchman  to  cross  the  Delaware  to  see 
his  army.  When  Lafayette  arrived  at  the  camp  in 
New  Jersey  the  troops  were  on  the  drill  ground. 
Many  of  them  were  ragged  and  barefooted.  Even 
the  officers  lacked  suitable  uniforms,  and  the  guns 
were  of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 

"  We  should  be  embarrassed  at  thus  showing  our- 
selves to  a  French  officer,"  said  Washington. 


150 

'•All!"  rei)li('(l  Liifayettt',  with  tears  in  his  eyes; 
"  nu'H  who  liii'lit  lor  liberty  against  such  odds  will  be 
sure  to  win." 

Washington  was  so  pleased  with  the  modest  zeal  of 
the  young  marquis  that  he  made  him  one  of  his  aides. 

General  How  e  sailed  up  Chesapeake  Bay,  and  land- 
ing, marched  to  attack  Philadelphia.  Washington, 
with  his  army,  went  to  meet  him,  and  there  was  a 
terrible  battle  near  Brandyw'ine  Creek. 

Lafayette  was  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight  until  he 
was  forced  to  fall  back,  on  account  of  having  received 
a  musket  ball  in  the  calf  of  his  leg. 

"  Take  care  of  the  marquis  as  though  he  were  my 
own  son,"  said  W^ashington  to  the  surgeon. 

The  wound  confined  Lafayette  to  his  bed  for  six 
weeks.  When  he  was  again  able  to  mount  a  horse, 
he  led  an  expedition  against  a  post  of  the  Hessians 
with  such  skill  that  he  was  given  command  of  the 
Mrginia  militia. 

After  some  battles  around  Philadelphia,  Washing- 
ton made  his  winter  quarters  at  Valley  Forge,  about 
twenty  miles  away. 

This  was  in  the  winter  of  1777.  The  weather  was 
very  severe.  Some  of  the  soldiers  were  without  shoes, 
and  their  feet  bled  as  they  w^alked  over  the  frozen 
ground ;  yet,  all  through  the  stormy  days,  the  little 
army  drilled  and  worked  at  the  fortifications,  while 


151 

at  night,  those  without  blankets  sat  around  the  camp 
fires  to  keep  from  freezing  to  death.  Lafayette,  who 
had  been  used  to  hixuries  all  his  life,  willingly  shared 
these  hardshijjs,  and  went  limping  about  from  tent  to 
tent  with  a  pleasant  word  for  everybody. 

Now,  all  this  time,  Benjamin  Franklin  was  at  Paris, 
working  for  the  colonies.  But  he  almost  despaired  of 
securing  aid  from  France.  One  day,  as  he  sat  alone 
wondering  what  plan  he  must  next  pursue,  an  Ameri- 
can courier  arrived  from  Boston.  Franklin  met  him 
at  the  door. 

"  Sir,"  he  asked,  without  waiting  for  the  man  to 
speak,  "  is  Philadelphia  captured  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir,"  answered  the  courier.  Franklin  turned 
sadly  away.     All  seemed  lost. 

"  But,  sir,  I  have  better  news  !  "  exclaimed  the  cou- 
rier, and  he  showed  dispatches  from  Congress  which 
told  of  the  battle  of  Saratoga  and  of  Burgoyne's  sur- 
render. 

Franklin  was  overjoyed,  and  hastened  to  court  with 
the  news. 

"Really,"  said  the  king  to  himself,  "this  is  the 
time  to  give  John  Bull  a  fnie  dose  of  bitters ;  these 
rebels  may  yet  become  a  great  nation."  And  so  he 
acknowledged  the  independence  of  the  United  States. 

Time  passed,  and  at  length  all  Europe  was  await- 
ing events  on  two  rivers  in  America.      The  Hudson, 


152 

in  the  north,  lay  between  Clinton  and  \\'ashington  ; 
in  tlie  south,  the  James  held  on  its  banks  the 
opposing  armies  of  Cornwallis  and   Lafayette. 

(\)]ii\vallis  tliroNv  u])  fortifications  at  Yorktown  and 
moved  his  camp  tluTc. 

Soon  th('  French  fleet  moved  up  Chesapeake  Bay 
and  anchored  before  Yorktown.  Lafayette  marched 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  Cornwallis  was  surrounded 
by  land  and  sea. 

Lafayette  was  urged  to  make  the  attack  at  once. 
It  was  a  temptation  for  the  young  major-general. 
But  when  he  thought  of  the  patient  commander  in 
the  north,  who  had  borne  the  burdens  of  the  long 
war,  he  said:  '"No;  1  shall  await  the  arrival  of 
\^'ashingtou.  To  him  alone  should  belong  the  honor 
of  giving  Cornwallis  this  final  blow." 

Meanwhile,  Washington  left  the  Hudson,  and  when 
the  united  armies,  under  his  command,  stood  in  front 
of  Yorktown,  Lafayette's  division  was  the  first  to 
storm  the  redoubts. 

Cornwallis  surrendered  October  19,  1781.  This 
ended  the  war,  and  America  was  free. 

Lafayette  returned  to  France.  Honors  were  show- 
ered upon  the  hero,  but  he  modestly  declared  that 
the  credit  of  the  victor}^   belonged  to  Washington. 

—  Alma  Holman  Burton. 

From  "  La/ay ette,  the  Friend  of  American  Liberty." 


163 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mouritain  height, 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun. 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land.  .  .  . 

/Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph,  high, 

(When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on; 
Ere  yet  the  lifeblood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
'To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 

/'And  when  the  cannon  mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, — 


164 

Tlien  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  toes  sliall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  striives  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death.  .  .  . 

/    Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given. 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  l)orn  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 

—  J.  Rodman  Drake. 

LIBERTY  AND  UNION 

I  PROFESS,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept 
steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  the  honor  of  the 
whole  country,  and  the  preservation  of  the  Federal 
Union.  I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  look  beyond 
the  Union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark 
recess  behind  ;  I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances 
of  preserving  liberty,  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us 
together  shall  be  broken  asunder. 

I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the 
precipice  of  disunion,  to  see  whether,  with  my  short 
sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depths  of  the  abyss  below; 


155 

nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counselor  in  the  affairs 
of  this  government,  whose  thoughts  should  be  mainly 
bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union  should  be 
preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition 
of  the  poeple  when  it  shall,  be  broken  up  and  de- 
stroyed. 

While  the  Union  lasts  we  have  high,  exciting, 
gratifying  prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and 
our  children.  Beyond  that,  I  seek  not  to  penetrate 
the  veil.  God  grant  that  in  my  day,  at  least,  that 
curtain  may  not  rise  !  God  grant  that  on  my  vision 
never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind ! 

When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold,  for  the 
last  time,  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him  shin- 
ing on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a 
once  glorious  Union ;  on  States  dissevered,  discord- 
ant, belligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds  or, 
drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood.  Let  their 
last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold  the 
gorgeous  ensign  of  the  Republic,  now  known  and 
honored  throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced, 
its  arms  and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original  lus- 
ter, not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  nor  a  single  star 
obscured  ;  bearing  for  its  motto  no  such  miserable 
interrogatory  as,  "  What  is  all  this  worth  ? "  nor 
those  other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "  Liberty 
first,  and  Union  afterwards  "  ;  but  everywhere  spread 


ir>(> 

all  over  in   cliiiractcM-s  of  li\  inij;  light,  blazing  on  all 

ita  ample   lukls  as  lliey  lloat  over  the  sea,  and  over 

the  huul,ancl  in  every  v.ind  nnder  the  whole  heavens, 

that  other   sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  Ameriean 

heart,  '*  Liberty   and   Union,  now  and  for  ever,  one 

and  inseparable." 

—  Daniel    Webster. 

PATRIOTISM 

Right  and  wrong,  justice  and  crime,  exist  indepen- 
dently of  our  country.  A  public  wrong  is  not  a 
private  right  for  any  citizen.  The  citizen  is  a  man 
bound  to  know  and  do  the  right,  and  the  nation  is 
but  an  aggregation  of  citizens.  If  a  man  should 
shout,  •'  My  country,  by  whatever  means  extended 
and  bounded ;  my  country,  right  or  wrong ! "  he 
merely  repeats  the  words  of  the  thief  who  steals  in 
the  street,  or  of  the  trader  who  swears  falsely  at  the 
customhouse,  both  of  them  chuckling,  "  My  fortune, 
however  acquired." 

Thus,  we  see  that  a  man's  country  is  not  a  certain 
area  of  land,  —  of  mountains,  rivers,  and  woods,  — 
but  it  is  principle ;  and  patriotism  is  loyalty  to  that 
principle. 

In  poetic  minds  and  in  popular  enthusiasm,  this 
feeling  becomes  closely  associated  with  the  soil  and 
symbols  of  the  country.     But  the  secret  sanctification 


157 

of  the  soil  and  the  symbol  is  the  idea  which  they 
represent ;  and  this  idea  the  patriot  worships  through 
the  name  and  the  symbol,  as  a  lover  kisses  with  rap- 
ture the  glove  of  his  mistress  and  wears  a  lock  of  her 
hair  upon  his  heart. 

So,  with  passionate  heroism,  of  which  tradition  is 
never  weary  of  tenderly  telling,  Arnold  von  Winkel- 
ried  gathers  into  his  bosom  the  sheaf  of  foreign 
spears,  that  his  death  may  give  life  to  his  country. 
So  Nathan  Hale,  disdaining  no  service  that  his  coun- 
try demands,  perishes  untimely,  with  no  other  friend 
than  God  and  the  satisfied  sense  of  duty.  So  George 
Washington,  at  once  comprehending  the  scope  of  the 
destiny  to  which  his  country  was  devoted,  with  one 
hand  puts  aside  the  crown,  and  with  the  other  sets 
his  slaves  free. 

So,  through  all  history  from  the  beginning,  a  noble 
army  of  martyrs  has  fought  fiercely  and  fallen  bravely 
for  that  unseen  mistress,  their  country.  So,  through 
all  history  to  the  end,  as  long  as  men  believe  in  God, 
that  army  must  still  march  and  fight  and  fall, — 
recruited  only  from  the  flower  of  mankind,  cheered 
only  by  their  own  hope  of  humanity,  strong  only  in 
their  confidence  in  their  cause. 

—  George  William  Curtis. 


1.S8 


WHAl'    MAKKS    A    NATION? 

What   makes  a  nation?      Bounding  lines  that  lead 

Iroin  short'  to  shore, 
That  trace  its  girtii  on  silent  hills  or  on  the  prairie 

floor, 
That  hold  the  rivers  and  the  lakes  and  all  the  fields 

between  — 
The  lines  that  stand  about  the  land  a  barrier  unseen  ? 

Or  is  it  guns  that  hold  the  eoast,  or  ships  that  sweep 

the  seas. 
The  flag  that  flaunts  its  glory  in  the  racing  of  the 

breeze  ; 
The  chants  of  peace,  or  battle  hymn,  or  dirge,  or 

victor's  song. 
Or  parchment  screed,  or  storied  deed,  that  makes  a 

nation  strong  ? 

What  makes  a  nation  ?     Is  it  ships  or  states  or  flags 

or  guns  ? 
Or  is  it  that  great  connnoii  heart  which  beats  in  all 

her  sons  — 
That  deeper  faith,  that  truer  faith,  the  trust  in  one 

for  all 
Which  sets  the  goal    for  every  soul  that  hears  his 

country's  call  ? 


159 

This  makes  a  nation  great  and  strong  and  certain  to 

endure, 
This  subtle  inner  voice  that  thrills  a  man  and  makes 

him  sure. 
Which  makes  him  know  there  is  no  north  or  south  or 

east  or  west 

"But  that  his  land  must  ever  stand  the  bravest  and 

the  best. 

—  W.  D.  Nesbit. 

THE   CHEERFUL   LOCKSMITH 

From  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key  there  issued 
forth  a  tinkling  sound,  so  merry  and  good-humored, 
that  it  suggested  the  idea  of  some  one  working 
blithely,  and  made  quite  pleasant  music.  Tink,  tink, 
tink  —  clear  as  a  silver  bell,  and  audible  at  every 
pause  of  the  streets'  harsher  noises,  as  though  it  said, 
'•  I  don't  care ;  nothing  puts  me  out ;  I  am  resolved 
to  be  happy." 

Women  scolded,  children  squalled,  heavy  carts  went 
rumbling  by,  horrible  cries  proceeded  from  the  lungs 
of  hawkers;  still  it  struck  in  again,  no  higher,  no 
lower,  no  louder,  no  softer ;  not  thrusting  itself  on 
people's  notice  a  bit  the  more  for  having  been  out- 
done by  louder  sounds  —  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink. 

It  was  a  perfect  embodiment  of  the  still  small 
voice,  free  from  all   cold,  hoarseness,    huskiness,    or 


160 

iinhoalthinoss  of  any  kind.  Foot,  passengers  slack- 
ened their  j)aee.  and  were  disposed  to  linger  near  it  ; 
neighbors  who  had  got  u})  splenetic  that  morning, 
felt  good  humor  stealing  on  tliem  as  they  heard  it, 
and  by  degrees  became  quite  sprightly ;  mothers 
danced  their  babies  to  its  ringing  ;  —  still  the  same 
magical  tink,  tink,  tinlv  came  gayly  from  the  work- 
shop of  the  Golden  Key. 

Who  but  the  locksmith  conld  have  made  such 
music?  A  gleam  of  sun  shining  through  the 
unsashed  window  and  checkering  the  dark  workshop 
with  a  broad  patch  of  light,  fell  full  upon  him,  as 
though  attracted  by  his  sunny  heart.  There  he 
stood  working  at  his  anvil,  his  face  radiant  with 
exercise  and  gladness,  his  sleeves  turned  up,  his  wig 
pushed  off  his  shining  forehead  —  the  easiest,  freest, 
happiest  man  in  all  the  world. 

Beside  him  sat  a  sleek  cat,  purring  and  winking 
in  the  light  and  falling  every  now  and  then  into  an 
idle  doze,  as  from  excess  of  comfort.  The  very  locks 
that  hung  around  had  something  jovial  in  their  rust, 
and  seemed  like  gouty  gentlemen  of  hearty  natures, 
disposed  to  joke  on  their  infirmities. 

There  was  nothing  surly  or  severe  in  the  whole 
scene.  It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  of  the 
innumerable  keys  could  fit  a  churlish  strong  box  or 
a  prison  door.     Storehouses   of   good  things,  rooms 


161 

where  there  were  fires,  books,  gossip,  and  cheermg 
laughter  —  these  were  their  proper  sphere  of  action. 
Places  of  distrust  and  cruelty  and  restraint,  they 
would  have  quadruple  locked  forever. 

Tink,  tink,  tink.  No  man  who  hammered  on  at 
a  dull,  monotonous  duty  could  have  brought  such 
cheerful  notes  from  steel  and  iron;  none  but  a  chirp- 
ing, healthy,  honest-hearted  fellow,  who  made  the 
best  of  everything  and  felt  kindly  toward  every- 
body, could  have  done  it  for  an  instant.  He  might 
have  been  a  coppersmith,  and  still  been  musical.  If 
he  had  sat  in  a  jolting  wagon,  full  of  rods  of  iron,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  would  have  brought  some  harmony 
out  01  it.  — Chakles  Dickens. 

THE   LOST   CHILD.      AN   AUSTRALIAN   STORY 

Four  or  five  miles  up  the  river  from  Garoopna 
stood  a  lonely  hut  sheltered  by  a  lofty  bare  knoll, 
round  which  the  great  river  chafed  among  the  bowl- 
ders. Across  the  stream  was  the  forest,  sloping 
down  in  pleasant  glades  from  the  mountain.  Behind 
the  hut  rose  a  plain  four  or  five  hundred  feet  over- 
head, seeming  to  be  held  aloft  by  the  blue  stone 
columns  which  rose  from  the  river  side. 

In  this  hut  lived  a   shepherd    and   his    wife   and 

VIII.  — 11 


i»;-2 

one  littlo  hov,  thoir  son.  ahoiit  oiglit  years  old  —  a 
5trangx>,  wild  little  bush  child,  without  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  and  without  acquaintance  with 
any  human  heings  save  his  father  and  mother.  He 
was  unaMc  to  read  a  line;  he  had  never  received  any 
religious  training  of  any  sort  or  kind.  He  was,  in 
fact,  as  entire  a  little  savage  as  you  could  find,  and 
yet  he  was  beautiful  to  look  upon ;  he  was  as  active 
as  a  wild  deer,  and  as  fearless  as  a  lion. 

As  yet  too  young  to  begin  labor,  all  the  long  sum- 
mer days  he  would  wander  about  the  river  bank,  up 
and  dowMi  the  beautiful  rock- walled  paradise  between 
the  water's  edge  and  the  high  level  plain.  Sometimes 
he  looked  eagerly  across  the  water  at  the  waving 
forest  boughs,  and  fancied  that  he  could  see  other 
children  beckoning  to  him  to  cross  and  play  in  that 
merry  land  of  shifting  lights  and  shadows. 

It  grew^  quite  into  a  passion  with  the  little  man  to 
get  across  and  play  there,  and  one  day  when  his 
mother  was  busy  with  her  work  he  said  to  her :  — 

"  Mother,  what  country  is  that  across  the  river  ?  " 

"The  forest,  my  child." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  wild  flowers  and  ripe  rasp 
berries  over  there,  are  there  not,  mother  ?  Why 
may  I  not  go  across  and  play  there?" 

"  The  river  is  too  deep,  child,  and  an  ugly  elf  lives 
in  tlie  water  under  the  stones." 


163 

*'  Who  are  the  children  that  play  across  there  ?  " 

"  Black  children,  likely." 

"  No  white  children  ?  " 

"  No,  none  but  pixies.  Don't  go  near  them  ;  they 
will  lure  you  on  and  on,  nobody  knows  where. 
Don't  try  to  cross  the  river  or  you  will  be  drowned." 

But  next  day  the  longing  was  stronger  with  him 
than  ever.  Quite  early  on  the  glorious,  cloudless, 
midsummer  day,  he  was  down  by  the  river  side, 
sitting  on  a  rock,  with  his  shoes  and  stockings  off, 
paddling  his  feet  in  the  clear,  tepid  water,  and 
watching  the  millions  of  little  fish  in  the  shallows, 
leaping  and  flashing  in  the  sunlight. 

There  is  no  pleasure  like  a  child's  midsummer  holi- 
day. There  sat  our  little  boy,  barelegged,  watching 
the  forbidden  ground  beyond  the  river.  He  sat  so 
still  that  a  red  kingfisher  perched  quite  close,  and 
dashing  into  the  water  came  forth  with  a  fish,  and 
fled  like  a  ray  of  light  along  the  winding  river.  A 
colony  of  little  parrots,  too,  crowded  on  a  bough  and 
twittered,  and  ran  to  and  fro,  as  though  they  said  to 
him,  "  We  don't  mind  you,  my  dear,  you  are  one  of 
us. 

Never  had  the  river  been  so  low.  He  stepped  in  ; 
it  scarcely  reached  his  ankle.  Now,  surely,  he  might 
get  across.  He  stripped  himself,  and,  carrying  his 
clothes,  waded  through,  —  the  water  never  reaching 


164 

liis  waist,  —  all  across  tlio  long,  yellow,  gravelly 
shallow.  And  there  he  stood,  naked  and  free,  on 
the  i'orl)id(leu   ground. 

He  quickly  dressed  hmiself  and  began  to  examine 
his  new  kingdom.  He  found  it  rich  far  beyond  his 
utmost  hoi)es.  Such  wild  flowers  and  such  rasp- 
berries—  far  surpassing  all  that  he  had  dreamed  of. 
And  when  he  had  grown  tired  of  them,  such  fern 
boughs,  six  or  eight  feet  long ! 

He  Avould  explore  this  region  and  see  how  far  it 
extended.  What  tales  he  would  have  for  his  father 
to-night !  He  would  bring  him  here,  and  show  him 
all  the  wonders,  and  perhaps  his  father  would  build 
a  new  hut  over  here,  and  come  and  live  in  it. 

There !  There  is  one  of  those  children  he  had 
seen  before  across  the  river.  Ah !  Ah !  it  is  not  a 
child  at  all,  but  a  pretty  gray  beast  with  big  ears. 
A  kangaroo,  my  lad ;  he  will  not  play  with  you,  but 
skips  away  slowly,  and  leaves  you  alone. 

There  is  something  like  the  gleam  of  water  on 
that  rock.  A  snake !  Now  a  sounding  rush  through 
the  wood,  and  a  passing  shadow.  An  eagle  !  He 
brushes  so  close  to  the  child  that  he  strikes  at  the 
bird  with  a  stick,  and  then  watches  him  as  he  shoots 
up  like  a  rocket,  and,  measuring  the  fields  of  air  in 
ever-widening  circles,  hangs  like  a  motionless  speck 
upon  the  sky. 


165 

Here  is  a  prize,  though !  A  wee  young  native 
bear,  hardly  a  foot  long,  —  an  odd-looking  little  gray 
beast  with  broad  flapping  ears,  —  sits  on  a  tree  within 
easy  reach.  It  is  not  afraid,  but  cuddles  into  the 
child's  bosom,  and  eats  a  leaf  as  they  go  along.  The 
mother  sits  aloft  and  goes  on  with  her  dinner  of  pep- 
permint leaves. 

What  a  short  day  it  has  been !  Here  is  the  sun 
getting  low,  and  the  birds  are  already  going  to  roost. 
The  boy  would  turn  and  go  back  to  the  river.  Alas ! 
which  way  ? 

He  was  lost  in  the  forest.  He  turned  back,  and 
went,  as  he  thought,  the  way  he  had  come,  but  soon 
arrived  at  a  tall  cliff,  which  by  some  magic  seemed 
to  have  got  between  him  and  the  river.  Then  he 
broke  down,  and  that  strange  madness  came  on  him 
which  comes  even  on  strong  men  when  lost  in  the 
forest  —  a  despair,  a  confusion  of  intellect,  which  has 
cost  many  a  man  his  life.  Think  what  it  must  have 
been  with  this  child  ! 

He  felt  sure  that  the  cliff  was  between  him  and 
his  home.  He  must  climb  it.  Alas!  every  step  he 
took  carried  him  farther  and  farther  from  the  river 
and  the  hope  of  safety ;  and  when  he  came  to  the 
top,  just  at  dark,  he  saw  nothing  but  cliff  after  cliff, 
range  after  range,  all  around  him. 

He  had  been  wandering  through  deep  gullies  all 


166 

(lav  without  knowing  it,  and  liad  now  gone  far  into 
the  mountains.  Night  was  coming  down,  still  and 
crystal  clear,  and  the  poor  lad  was  far  away  from 
help  or  hope,  going  his  last  long  journey  alone. 
Partly  perhaps  walking,  and  partly  sitting  down  and 
weeping,  he  got  through  the  night.  And  when  the 
solemn  morning  came  up  again  he  was  still  tottering 
along,  and  crying  from  time  to  time,  "  Mother, 
mother  I  "  —  still  nursing  his  little  bear,  his  only 
companion,  to  his  bosom,  and  still  holding  in  his  hand 
a  few  poor  flowers  he  had  gathered  the  day  before. 

Up  and  on  all  day ;  and  at  evening,  passing  out 
of  the  great  zone  of  timber',  he  came  on  the  bald 
summit  ridge  where  one  ruined  tree  held  up  its 
skeleton  arms  against  the  sunset,  and  the  wind  came 
keen  and  frosty.  So,  with  failing,  feeble  legs,  he  toiled 
upward  still,  toward  the  region  of  rock  and  snow, 
toward  the  lofty  home  of  the  kite  and  the  eagle. 

Brisk  as  they  were  all  at  Garoopna,  none  were  so 
brisk  as  Cecil  and  Samuel.  Long  before  any  others 
were  ready  these  two  had  strapped  their  blankets  to 
their  saddles,  and  followed  b}^  Samuel's  dog,  Rover, 
were  cantering  off  up  the  river. 

Neither  spoke  at  first.  They  knew  what  a  sad 
task  they  had  before  them ;  and  while  acting  as 
though  everything  depended  upon  speed  they  guessed 


167 

well  that  their  search  would  be  of  little  help  to  the 
poor  child.     Still  they  hurried  onward. 

Cecil  began  :  "  Samuel,  depend  on  it  that  child  has 
crossed  the  river.  If  he  had  been  on  the  plains  he 
would  have  been  seen  from  a  distance  in  a  few 
hours." 

"  I  agree  with  'you,"  said  Samuel.  ''  Let  us  go 
dow^n  on  this  side  till  w^e  are  opposite  the  hut  and 
search  for  marks  by  the  river  side." 

In  half  an  hour  they  w^ere  opposite  the  hut,  and, 
riding  across  to  it  to  ask  a  few  questions,  they  found 
the  poor  mother  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  with  her 
apron  over   her    head,  rocking   herself   to   and   fro. 

"  We  have  come  to  help  you,"  said  Cecil. 
"  Where  do  you  think  he  is  gone  ?  " 

The  mother  answered,  with  frequent  bursts  of  grief, 
that  some  days  before  he  had  spoken  of  seeing  white 
children  across  the  water  who  beckoned  him  to  cross 
and  play ;  that  she,  knowing  well  they  were  fairies, 
or  perhaps  worse,  had  warned  him  solemnly  not  to 
mind  them ;  but  that  she  had  little  doubt  that  they 
had  helped  him  over  and  carried  him  away  to  the 
forest. 

"  Why,  it  is  not  knee  deep  across  the  shallow," 
said  Cecil.  "Let  us  cross  again.  He  may  be 
drowned,  but  I  don't  think  so." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  starting  they  found,  a 


168 

little  way  up  the  stream,  one  of  the  child's  stockings, 
which  in  his  hnrrv  to  dress  he  had  forgotten.  Mere 
l)ra\e  lu)\er  took  up  the  trail  like  a  bloodhound,  and 
before  evening  stopju'd  at  the  foot  of  a  lofty  cliff. 

"  Can  he  have  gone  up  here  ? "  said  Samuel,  as 
they  gazed  up  the  steep  side  of  the  rock. 

"•Most  likely,"  answered  Cecil."  "Lost  children 
always  climb  from  height  to  height.  I  have  heard 
this  often  from  old  woodsmen.  Why  they  do  so, 
God  only  knows  ;  but  the  fact  is  beyond  denial. 
Ask  Rover  what  he  thinks  ? " 

The  brave  old  dog  was  half  way  up,  looking  back 
for  them.  It  took  them  until  nearly  dark  to  get 
their  horses  up;  and  as  there  was  no  moon,  and  the 
way  was  full  of  danger,  they  determined  to  camp  for 
the  niffht,  and  start  again  in  the  morning. 

At  early  dawn  they  caught  the  horses  and  started 
afresh.  Both  were  more  silent  than  ever,  and  the 
dog,  with  his  nose  to  the  ground,  led  them  slowly 
along  the  rocky  ridge  of  the  mountain,  ever  going 
higher  and  higher. 

"  I  cannot  believe,"  said  Samuel,  "  that  the  poor 
child  has  come  up  here.  Don't  you  think  we  must 
be  mistaken  ?  " 

'•'•  The  dog  does  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Cecil. 
"  He  has  something  before  him  not  very  far  off. 
Watch  him." 


169 

The  trees  had  become  small  and  scattered.  The 
real  forest  was  now  below  them.  A  few  hundred 
yards  before  them  they  saw  a  dead  tree,  on  the  high- 
est branch  of  which  sat  an  eagle. 

"  The  dog  has  stopped,"  said  Cecil.  "  The  end  is 
near." 

"  See,"  said  Samuel,  "  there  is  a  handkerchief 
under  the  tree." 

"  That  is  the  boy  himself,"  said  Cecil. 

They   were  up  to  him  and  off  their  horses  in  a 

moment.     There  the  poor  boy  lay  dead  and  stiff,  one 

hand  still  grasping  the  flowers  he  had  gathered  on 

his  last  happy  playday,  and  the  other  laid  as  a  pillow 

between  the  soft  cold  cheek  and  the  rough  cold  stone. 

His  midsummer  holiday  was  over,  his  long  journey 

ended. 

—  Henry  Kingsley. 

DUTY 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 

One  by  one  the  moments  fall  ; 
Some  are  coming,  some  are  going ; 

Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 
One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee  — 

Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each. 
Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 

Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 


170 


HEKVE    KIEL 


On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety- 
two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French,  —  woe  to  France ! 
And,  the  thu'ty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through 

the  ))lue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks 
pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the 
Ranee, 
With  the  Ensrlish  fleet  in  view. 

'Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in 
full  chase  ; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship, 
Damfreville  ; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signaled  to  the  place 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 

Get  us  guidance,   give    us  harbor,  take  us  quick 

—  or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will !  " 
Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt 
on  board  ; 
"  Why,    what    hope    or   chance    have    ships    like 
these  to  pass  ? "  laughed  they  :  — 


171 

'•  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage 

scarred  and  scored, 
Shall  the  Forinidahle  here  with  her  twelve  and  eighty 
guns 
Think  to  make  the  river  mouth  by  the  single  nar- 
row way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty 
tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring  ?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  !  " 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 
"  Here's  the  English  at  our  heels ;  would  you  have 

them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern 

and  bow. 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground  !  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
"  Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,   burn  the  vessels  on 
the  beach ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


17-2 

#  *  ♦  »  * 

•'  (Jive  the  woi'd  !  "      But  no  such  word 
\\  as  I'ver  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  uj)  stood,  for  out  stopped,  for  hi  struck  amid 

all  these 
—  A  Captain?     A   Lieutenant?     A  Mate  —  first, 

second,  third  ? 
No  such  mail  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for 
the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting  pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

And  "  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here  ?  "  cries 
Herve  Riel :  — 
"  Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins  ?     Are  you  cowards, 
fools,  or  rogues  ? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,   me  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river 
disembogues  ? 
Are  you  bought  by   English  gold  ?     Is  it  love  the 
lying's  for  ? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 


173 

''  Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France  ?     That  were  worse 
than  fifty  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth !     Sirs,  believe 
me,  there's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear. 
Make  the  others  follow  mine. 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know 
well, 
Right  to.  Solidor  past  Gr^ve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 

—  Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground. 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life,  —  here's  my  head !  " 

cries  Herve  Riel. 
Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
••  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron !  " 
cried  its  chief. 
"  Captains,  give  the  sailor  place ! 
He  is  Admiral,  in  brief." 

Still  the  north  wind,  by  God's  grace ! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face, 
As  the  big  ship  with  a  bound 
(clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 


174 

Krops  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 
seas  profound  ! 
See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 
How  they  follow  in  a  Hock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates 
the  ground, 
Not  a  spar  that  conies  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past, 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor !  "  —  sure  as 

fate 
Up  the  English  come,  —  too  late  ! 
So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance. 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance, 

As  they  cannonade  away  ! 
'Neath    rampired  Solidor    pleasant     riding    on     the 

Ranee  !  " 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  coun- 
tenance ! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"  Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  !  " 


175 

What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Riel !  " 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville  :  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end. 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !  or  my  name's  not 
Damfreville." 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  :  — 
"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it 
but  a  run  ?  — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — 


176 

Siiio'  the  others  i^i)  asliore  — 
Come  !   A  ^^ood  wliolo  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  'i!;o  and   see  my    wife,  wliom    T   call    the 
Belle  Aurore  !  " 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got,  —  nothing  more, 
Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing  smack, 

In  memory  of  the  man  bnt  for  whom  had  gone  to 
wrack 
All   that   France   saved   from   the    fight    whence 
England  bore  the  bell. 

Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ! 
You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herv^ 

Kiel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  m}^  verse  ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife,  the 
Belle  Aurore ! 

—  Robert  Browning. 


177 


THE   STORY   OF    MY    BOYHOOD 

My  life  is  a  lovely  story,  happy  and  full  of  inci- 
dent. If,  when  I  was  a  boy,  a  good  fairy  had  met 
me  and  said,  "  Choose  now  thy  own  course  through 
life,  and  I  will  guide  and  defend  thee,"  my  fate  could 
not  have  been  directed  more  happily. 

In  the  year  1805,  there  lived  in  Odense,  in  a  small 
room,  a  young  married  couple.  The  man  was  a  shoe- 
maker, scarcely  twenty-two  years  old,  a  man  of  richly 
gifted  and  truly  poetical  mind.  His  wife  was  igno- 
rant of  life  and  of  the  world,  but  possessed  a  heart 
full  of  love.  The  young  man  had  himself  made  his 
shoemaking  bench,  and  the  furniture  with  which  he 
began  housekeeping. 

In  this  small  room,  there  lay,  on  the  2d  of 
April,  1805,  a  living,  weeping  child, —  that  was 
myself,  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  During  the  first 
day  of  my  existence  my  father  is  said  to  have  sat  by 
the  bed  and  read  aloud,  but  I  cried  all  the  time. 

"  Wilt  thou  go  to  sleep,  or  listen  quietly  ? "  my 
father  asked  in  joke ;   but  I  still  cried  on. 

Our  little  room,  which  was  almost  filled  with  the 
shoemaker's  bench  and  my  crib,  was  the  abode  of  my 
childhood.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pictures, 
and  over  the  workbench  was  a  cupboard,  containing 
books  and   songs.     The    little    kitchen   was    full   of 

VIM.  —  12 


178 

shining  plates  and  nit'tal  ]»ans,  and  by  means  of  a 
ladder  it  was  possible  to  go  out  on  the  roof.  Here 
there  stood  a  great  chest  tilled  with  soil,  my  mother's 
sole  garden,  and  where  she  grew  her  vegetables. 

I  was  the  only  child,  and  my  father  gratified  me  in 
all  my  wishes.  1  possessed  his  whole  heart.  He 
lived  for  me.  On  holidays  he  made  me  theaters  and 
pictures,  and  read  to  me  from  the  "  Arabian  Tales." 

It  was  only  in  such  moments  as  these  that  I  can 
remember  to  have  seen  him  really  cheerful.  His 
parents  had  been  country  people  in  good  circum- 
stances, but  upon  whom  many  misfortunes  had 
fallen.  The  cattle  had  died ;  the  farmhouse  had 
been  burned  down ;  and  lastly,  his  father  had  lost  his 
reason.  On  this  his  mother  had  removed  to  Odense, 
and  there  put  her  son,  whose  mind  was  full  of  intel- 
ligence, apprentice  to  a  shoemaker.  It  was  my  poor 
father's  ardent  desire  to  attend  the  grammar  school 
where  he  might  learn  Latin.  But  he  saw  his  dear- 
est  wish  unfulfilled,  and  he  never  lost  the  remem 
brance  of  it.  I  recollect  that  once,  as  a  child,  I  saw 
tears  m  his  eyes,  and  it  was  when  a  youth  from  the 
grammar  school  came  to  our  house  and  showed  us 
his  books  and  told  us  what  he  learned. 

On  Sundays  my  father  went  out  into  the  wood:* 
and  took  me  with  him.  He  did  not  talk  much  when 
he  was  out,  but  sat  silently,  sunk  in  deep  thought. 


179 


HOW    DARE    YOU    Si  KIKE    ME? 


(See  p.   184.) 


180 

whilst  1  ran  a))oiit  and  gathered  strawberries  or 
bound  garlanils.  Only  twice  in  the  year,  and  that  in 
the  month  of  May,  when  the  woods  were  arrayed  in 
their  earliest  green,  did  my  mother  go  with  us.  She 
wore  a  cotton  gown  on  these  occasions,  which,  as 
long  as  1  can  remember,  was  her  holiday  gown.  She 
always  took  home  with  her  from  the  wood  a  great 
many  fresh  beech  boughs,  which  were  then  planted  in 
the  garden  on  the  roof. 

One  of  my  first  recollections  had  for  me  a  good 
deal  of  importance.  It  was  a  family  festival,  and 
can  you  guess  where  ?  In  that  very  place  in  Odense 
which  I  had  always  looked  on  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling, —  in  the  Odense  House  of  Correction. 

My  parents  were  acquainted  with  the  jailer,  who 
invited  them  to  a  family  dinner,  and  I  was  to  go  with 
them.  I  was  at  that  time  still  so  small  that  I  was 
carried  when  I  returned  home. 

The  House  of  Correction  was  for  me  a  great  store- 
house of  tales  about  robbers  and  thieves.  Often  I 
had  stood,  but  always  at  a  safe  distance,  and  listened 
to  the  singing  of  the  men  within  and  of  the  women 
spinning  at  their  wheels. 

I  went  with  my  parents  to  the  jailer's.  The  heavy 
iron-bolted  gate  was  opened  and  again  locked  with 
the  key  from  the  rattling  bunch.  We  mounted  a 
steep  staircase  —  we  ate  and    drank,  and  two  of  the 


181 

prisoners  waited  at  the  table.  They  could  not  induce 
me  to  taste  of  anything.  The  sweetest  things  I 
pushed  away.  My  mother  told  them  I  was  sick,  and 
I  was  laid  on  a  bed,  where  I  heard  the  spinning 
wheels  humming  near  by  and  merry  singing;  but  I 
know  that  I  was  afraid  all  the  time.  And  yet  I  was 
in  a  pleasant  humor,  making  up  stories  of  how  I  had 
entered  a  castle  full  of  robbers.  Late  in  the  night  my 
parents  went  home,  carrying  me,  the  rain  dashing 
against  my  face. 

Odense  was  in  my  childhood  quite  another  town 
from  \vhat  it  is  now.  Then  it  was  a  hundred  years 
behind  the  times.  Many  customs  and  manners  pre- 
vailed which  have  since  disappeared  from  the  capital. 
When  the  guilds  removed  their  signs,  they  went  in 
procession  with  flying  banners  and  with  lemons 
dressed  in  ribbons  stuck  on  their  swords,  led  by  a 
harlequin  with  bells  and  a  wooden  sword. 

The  first  Monday  in  Lent  the  butchers  used  to  lead 
through  the  streets  a  fat  ox,  adorned  with  wreaths  of 
flowers,  and  ridden  by  a  boy  in  a  white  gown  and 
wearing  wings. 

The  sailors  also  passed  through  the  streets  with 
music  and  flags  and  streamers  flying.  Two  of  the 
boldest  wrestled  on  a  plank  placed  between  two  boats, 
and  the  one  that  did  not  tumble  into  the  water  was 
the  hero. 


182 

Tn  niv  sixth  \e;ir  came  tlic  i>Teat  comet  of  1811. 
Mv  iiiotluT  told  IMC  that  it  would  destroy  the  earth, 
or  that  other  horrihle  tliinujs  threatened  us.  I  listened 
to  all  these  stories  and  fully  liclieved  them.  With  my 
motlier  and  some  ot"  the  neigliboring  women  I  stood 
in  the  churchyard  and  looked  at  the  frightful  and 
mighty  lire  ball  with  its  large,  shining  tail. 

All  talked  about  the  signs  of  evil  and  the  day  of 
doom.  My  father  was  not  of  their  Opinion  at  all,  and 
gave  them  a  correct  and  sound  explanation.  Then 
my  mother  sighed,  the  women  shook  their  heads,  and 
my  father  laughed  and  went  away.  In  the  evening 
my  mother  and  my  grandmother  talked  together.  I 
do  not  know  how  my  grandmother  explained  it,  but  I 
sat  in  her  lap  and  looked  into  her  mild  eyes,  and  ex- 
pected every  moment  that  the  comet  would  rush  down 
and  the  day  of  judgment  come. 

The  mother  of  my  father  came  daily  to  our  house, 
were  it  only  for  a  moment,  in  order  to  see  her  little 
grandson,  for  I  was  her  joy  and  her  delight.  Every 
Sunday  evening  she  brought  us  some  flowers.  These 
adorned  my  mother's  cupboard,  but  still  they  were 
mine  ;  and  I  was  allowed  to  put  them  in  a  glass  of 
water.     How  great  was  this  pleasure ! 

I  very  seldom  played  with  other  boys.  Even  at 
school  I  took  little  interest  in  their  games,  but  re- 
mained sitting  within  doors.     At  home  1  had  play- 


183 

things  enough,  which  my  father  made  for  me.  I  was 
a  singularly  dreamy  child,  and  went  about  with  my 
eyes  half-shut. 

A  teacher,  who  had  an  ABC  school,  taught  me 
the  letters,  to  spell,  and  to  read.  She  used  to  have 
her  seat  in  a  high-backed  armchair  near  the  clock, 
from  which,  at  every  stroke,  some  little  figures  came 
out.  She  made  use  of  a  big  rod,  which  she  always 
carried  with  her.  The  school  consisted  mostly  of 
girls.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  school  for  all  to 
spell  loudly  and  in  as  high  a  key  as  possible.  One 
day,  having  got  a  hit  of  the  rod,  I  rose  immediately, 
took  my  book,  and  went  home  to  my  mother.  I  asked 
that  I  might  go  to  another  school,  and  my  mother 
sent  me  to  a  school  for  boys.  There  was  also  one  girl 
there,  a  little  one,  somewhat  older  than  I.  We  be- 
came very  good  friends.  She  used  to  say  that  she 
went  to  school  especially  to  learn  arithmetic,  for  she 
could  then  become  dairymaid  in  some  great  house. 

'•  That  you  can  become  in  my  castle,  when  I  am  a 
nobleman !  "  said  I,  and  she  laughed  at  me  and  told 
me  I  was  only  a  poor  boy. 

I  was  the  smallest  in  the  school,  and  my  teacher 
always  took  me  by  the  hand  while  the  other  boys 
played,  that  I  might  not  be  run  over.  He  loved  me 
much,  gave  me  cakes  and  flowers,  and  tapped  me  on 
the  cheeks. 


184 

Sometimes,  durinij:  tlie  harvest,  my  mother  went 
into  the  tields  to  glean.  1  accompanied  her,  and  we 
went,  like  Ruth  in  the  Bible  to  glean  in  the  rich  fields 
of  Boaz.  One  day  we  went  to  a  place  the  bailitt"  of 
which  was  a  man  of  I'ude  and  savage  disposition.  We 
saw  him  coming  with  a  huge  w'liip  in  his  hand,  and 
my  mother  and  all  the  others  ran  away.  I  had  wooden 
shoes  on  my  bare  feet,  and  in  my  haste  I  lost  these, 
and  the  thorns  pricked  me  so  that  I  could  not  run. 
Thus  1  was  left  behind  and  alone.  The  man  came  up 
and  lifted  his  whip  to  strike  me,  when  I  looked  him 
in  the  face  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  How^  dare  you  strike  me,  when  God  can  see  it?" 

The  strong,  stern  man  looked  at  me,  and  at  once 
became  mild.  He  patted  me  on  my  cheeks,  asked  me 
my  name,  and  gave  me  money. 

When  I  brought  the  money  to  my  mother  and 
showed  it  to  her,  she  said  to^  the  others,  "  He  is  a 
strange  child,  my  Hans  Christian ;  everybody  is  kind 
to  him.  " 

My  father  died  while  I  was  still  a  small  boy.  When 
I  wept,  my  mother  said,  "  He  is  dead,  thou  needst  not 
call  him.  The  ice  maiden  has  taken  him  away." 
.  T  understood  what  she  meant.  I  recollected  that, 
in  the  winter  before,  when  our  window  panes  were 
frozen,  my  father  had  pointed  to  them  and  showed  us 
a  figure  like  that  of  a  maiden  with  outstretched  arms. 


185 

"  She  has  come  to  fetch  me,"  said  he,  in  jest.  And 
now,  when  he  lay  dead,  my  mother  remembered  this, 
and  it  was  in  my  thoughts  also. 

I  grew  rapidly,  and  was  a  tall  lad.  My  mother 
said  that  I  must  not  go  any  longer  without  an  object 
in  life.  I  was  sent,  therefore,  to  the  charity  school, 
where  I  learned  religion,  writing,  and  arithmetic. 

I  had  saved  a  little  sum  of  money,  and  when  I 
counted  it  over  I  found  it  to  be  about  thirty  shillings. 
I  was  quite  overjoyed  at  the  possession  of  so  much 
wealth,  and  I  besought  my  mother  that  I  might  make 
a  journey  to  Copenhagen,  to  see  the  greatest  city  in 
the  world. 

"  What  wilt  thou  do  there?"  asked  my  mother. 

''  I  will  be  famous,  "  returned  I ;  and  then  I  told 
her  all  that  I  had  read  about  great  men.  "  People 
have, "  said  I,  "  at  first  an  immense  amount  of  ad- 
versity to  go  through,  and  then  they  will  be  famous." 

At  last  m}^  mother  consented.  She  packed  my 
clothes  in  a  small  bundle,  and  made  a  bargain  with 
the  driver  of  a  post  carriage  to  take  me  back  with  him 
to  Copenhagen.  The  afternoon  on  which  I  was  to  set 
out  came,  and  my  mother  accompanied  me  to  the  city 
gate.  Here  stood  my  old  grandmother.  In  the  last 
few  years  her  beautiful  hair  had  become  gray.  She 
fell  upon  my  neck  and  wept,  without  being  able  to 
speak  a  word.     I  was  myself  deeply  affected.     And 


186 

thus  we  parted.     I  saw  her  no  more,  for  she  died  in 
the  following  year. 

The  postilion  blew  his  horn.  It  was  a  glorious 
afternoon,  and  the  sunshine  soon  entered  into  my  gay, 
child-like  mind. 

—  Hans  Chkistian  Andersen. 

From  "  The  Story  of  my  Life.  " 

DOUGLAS    AND    MARMION 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew ; 
But  Marmiou  stopped  to  bid  adieu. 

^'  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." 

But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 

Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  : 

"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 

Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will, 

To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 

Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 

My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 

From  turret  to  foundation  stone : 

The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 


187 

A.nd  never  shall,  in  friendly  grasp, 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire  ; 

And  "  This  to  me  ?  "  he  said  ; 
"  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head. 
And  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate. 

"  And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 

I  tell  thee  thou'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  hed." 

On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth  :  "  And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 
The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 


188 


And  hop'st  tlioii  hence  unscathed  to  go? 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no !  — 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms !  —  what,  warder,  ho ! 
Let  the  portcullis  fall." 

Lord  Marmion  turned,  —  well  was  his  need,  — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung ; 
The  ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  grazed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 
Nor  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim. 


189 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reached  his  band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand. 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

—  Sir  Waltek  Scott 

Fro  «i  "  Ma  rm  ici  n . " 

THE   BATTLE    OF    BLENHEIM 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 

And  he,  before  his  cottage  door. 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green, 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 
In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  b}^  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And,  wdth  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
*'  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 


190 

*'  I  liiid  tlieiu  in  llic  garden, 
For  there's  many  hereabout ; 

And  often  when  1  go  to  [)lo\v, 
The  plowsliare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

*'  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 
While  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes  ; 
*'  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  the}^  killed  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout, 

But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory  : 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream,  hard  by ; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 

So,  with  his  wnfe  and  child,  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 


191 

"  With  fire  and  sword,  the  country  round 

Was  wasted,  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  nursing  mother  then. 

And  new-born  baby,  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

**  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won : 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlboro'  won, 
And  our  young  prince,  Eugene." 

"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !  " 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl !  "  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

*'  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

«'  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"But  'twas  a  glorious  victory." 

—  Robert  Southey. 


192 


BURIAL    OF    SIR    JOHN    MOORE 

Nor  a  (Iniiii  was  licaid,  nut  a  I'uueral  note, 
As  liis  corse  to  the  rampart  we  liiirried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  huried. 

We  buried  iiini  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  inclosed  his  breast. 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest. 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  w^e  spoke  not  a  w  ord  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow\ 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 


193 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him  ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring, 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

*" 
Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ! 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 

But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

—  Charles  Wolfe. 

AMONG   THE    ICEBERGS 

The  moon  rose  full  and  clear  upon  a  sea  of  mys- 
tery. The  sun  had  set  behind  a  black  line  on  our 
port  quarter  as  we  were  headed  northeast  for  the 
passage  of  Davis  Strait  to  the  coast  of  Greenland. 
For  a  moment  there  was  a  flush  upon  the  sea,  form- 
ing a  radiance  about  the  icebergs,  tlien  across  the 
dark  water  fell  a  glittering  path  of  silver,  and  every- 
where were  vast,  ghostly  figures  unmoving  in  the 
moonlight.  The  ice  was  thickening  about  us.  Ahead 
and  upon  our  starboard  quarter  it  stood  in  mass,  in 

vni.  — 13 


194 

irregular  l)roken  outline,  and  might  have  been  a  great 
wliite  eity  upon  a.  plain.  Very  menacing  it  looked  to 
us  who  had  gained  our  dread  of  ice  in  trips  across  the 
North  Atlantic.  liut  there  was  reassuring  uncon- 
cernedness  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  been  in  these 
waters  before,  especially  the  captain  and  the  crew. 

At  midnight  I  was  wakened  by  the  clash  of  col- 
lision and  a  shudder  which  went  through  the  vessel 
like  the  shake  of  ague.  There  was  a  shouting  on  the 
deck,  and  a  loud  grating  of  ice  along  the  vessel's  side 
which  sounded  like  sure  destruction.  Then  followed 
another  clash  and  quiver  and  more  shouting,  but  the 
sense  of  danger  was  gone,  for  it  was  instantly  ap- 
parent that  we  were  but  forcing  a  way  through  the 
floe.  It  was  interesting  then  to  wait  for  the  moment 
of  impact,  and  the  jar  which  set  the  vessel  trembling 
in  every  fiber,  and  the  heave  as  her  bows  rose  upon 
an  obstructive  pan,  and  the  thunder  of  the  pack 
along  her  sides,  and  over  all  the  crescendo  of  shout- 
ing. 

Soon  it  became  intelligible.  "  Starboard  !  "  came 
faintly  from  the  forward  crow's-nest,  whence  the 
mate  was  picking  a  course  through  the  floe.  "  Star- 
board ! !  "  next  in  a  ringing  order  from  the  captain 
on  the  bridge.  "  Starboard  ! ! !  "  finally  in  a  pro- 
longed response  from  the  two  men  at  the  wheel  at 
the  head  of  the  companionway.     Then,  '^  Steady !  " 


195 


I 


196 

fi)i\vaid  from  aloft,  and  '' Stead-e-e ! ! "  from  the 
bridge,  and  a  •  long-drawn  "  Stead-e-e-e-e  ! ! !  "  from 
the  men,  as  the  wheel  whhled  under  the  release  of 
tension. 

From  the  deck,  in  the  morning,  the  ship  appeared 
to  be  imprisoned  in  a  sea  of  ice ;  not  the  black-blue 
ice  of  a  fresh-water  lake,  but  ice  of  unspotted  white 
like  that  of  a  glacier.  In  masses  of  irregular  size, 
known  to  the  sealers  as  "pans,"  and  of  relatively 
flat  surface,  it  floated  about  us,  broken  in  uniformity 
only  here  and  there  by  the  towering  bulk  of  an  ice- 
berg. On  every  side  it  spread  to  the  horizon,  with 
threadlike  branching  blue  veins  of  open  water  among 
the  pans  widening  now  and  again  to  pools  that  in  the 
sunlight  were  sapphires  set  among  diamonds. 

The  Diana  was  having  much  her  own  way  in.  a 
fast-melting  summer  floe,  that  drifts  from  Hudson  Bay 
in  the  southward  Labrador  current.  Had  it  been  win- 
ter, and  had  she  been  nipped  in  the  pack  and  ex- 
posed to  its  terrible  lateral  pressure,  she  would  have 
been  crushed  like  an  eggshell  between  the  lips  of  a 
vise. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning  the  sharp  eyes  of 
the  watch  caught  sight  of  open  water  ahead,  and 
at  little  after  noon  we  steamed  clear  of  the  ice  and 
again  set  a  straight  northeasterly  course. 

One  day  more  of  calm  and  of  smilit  seas,  then  two 


197 

of  dark,  tempestuous  weather,  with  dire  discomfort 
in  Davis  Strait,  and  we  wakened  on  Saturday  to  the 
welcome  sense  of  an  even  keel. 

Icebergs  were  many  about  us.  From  their  cold 
surfaces  the  sun  was  breeding  a  fog  which,  even  as  I 
watched,  shut  out  the  land,  and  veiled  us  in  a  mist 
through  which  we  could  see  only  a  hundred  yards 
across  the  water.  Overhead  was  clear  sky,  and  in 
the  dense  fog  to  port  was  a  luminous  point  formed 
by  the  sun  rays  in  the  mist.  This  the  seamen  called 
a  "  fog  eater."  But  the  promise  of  clearing  which  it 
held  was  borne  out  in  the  course  of  the  morning  only 
by  an  occasional  thinning  of  the  fog,  through  which 
we  caught  furtive  glimpses  of  the  mountain  tops, 
with  their  heights  vastly  exaggerated,  as  they  ap- 
peared above  the  denser  mist  that  hid  the  shore. 

There  is  an  element  of  adventure  in  cruising  at 
full  speed  in  a  thick  fog  along  an  ill-charted  coast, 
in  waters  frequented  by  icebergs  as  large  as  St. 
Peter's  Cathedral.  We  were  headed  shoreward  in 
the  hope  of  soon  running  free  of  fog.  From  out  our 
easeful  attitudes  in  the  sunlight  we  started  -suddenly 
as  one  man.  It  was  to  the  call  of  the  captain,  who 
was  standing  now  at  the  head  of  the  port  ladder 
leading  to  the  bridge,  his  face  livid  and  his  figure 
bent  tensely  forward.  "  Hard  a-starboard !  Hard 
a-starboard  !  "  he  was  shouting  in  a  voice  that  carried 


198 

I'Diiviction.  Ill  an  instant  the  spokes  of  the  double 
wheel  \ven>  thick  with  hands  that  urged  it  over  at 
all  speed.  With  the  sensitiveness  almost  of  a  skiff 
the  Diana  responded,  sweeping,  in  a  great  curve,  to 
jutrt.  while  oiV  our  starboard,  so  near  that  we  could 
almost  toss  a  biscuit  upon  it  from  the  deck,  rose  the 
ragged  peak  of  a  rock  projecting  a  few  feet  above  the 
water  that  played  about  it  in  dancing  ripples. 

As  suddenly  as  it  closed  about  us  in  the  early 
morning  the  fog  lifted  in  the  later  afternoon,  reveal- 
ing the  coast  line  through  an  atmosphere  of  singular 
clearness.  The  sun  was  late  in  setting  that  night. 
For  more  than  a  week  we  had  marked  the  lengthen- 
ing days,  and  it  was  in  keeping  with  our  general 
good  fortune  that,  in  the  few  hours  of  darkness  each 
night,  the  moon  should  give  us  ample  light  until  we 
reached  a  point  where,  at  that  season,  the  sun  would 
not  set  at  all.  It  came  slowly  to  its  setting  now, 
sloping  obliquely  well  to  the  north  of  west,  and 
shedding,  far  into  the  night,  its  level  rays  across  the 
sea.  A  faint  breeze  was  blowing  from  the  north, 
cold  from  off  an  ice-cold  sea,  but  surcharged  with  a 
quality  of  vigor  that  set  one's  blood  bounding.  The 
wind  rnflded  the  placid  water  as  it  reflected  the  red 
and  gold  and  orange  and  purple  of  a  sunset  which 
framed  the  icebergs  and  the  distant  snows  in  a  radi- 
ance of  Italian  pink.     Fairly  in  the  eye  of  the  setting 


199 

sun  a  sportsman  in  the  foretop  was  first  to  see  a  sail, 
and  almost  simultaneously  he  raised  a  cry  of  ••  Whales 
to  starboard!"  For  half  an  hour  we  watched  them 
from  the  deck.  They  were  three  or  four  "right" 
whales  at  play  about  us,  their  massive  black  bulks 
rising  from  the  gorgeous  sea  in  a  movement  of  great 
dignity  and  grace,  then  disappearing  with  a  flap  of 
the  tail  that  lashed  the  sea  into  foam,  only  to  rise 
again  a  moment  later  exhaling  hot  breath,  which  in 
the  cold  air  turned  instantly  to  vapor  and  shot  up- 
ward in  white  spray  like  the  spout  of  a  fountain. 

There  was  no  darkness.  The  mystic  twilight  of 
the  north  fell  upon  us  with  the  disappearing  of  the 
sun.  The  breeze  had  died  away  and  the  restfulness 
of  perfect  calm  was  upon  land  and  sea,  while  over 
all,  like  an  impalpable  veil,  fell  the  light  that  dims 
the  sordid  face  of  things  and  reveals  the  mystery  and 
the  wonder  of  the  world,  and  fills  us  with  ineffable 
regret  and  longing. 

All  day  we  sailed  in  view  of  our  first  Greenland 
haven.  It  was  a  cloudless  day,  with  radiant  sea  and 
air,  and  a  grateful  warmth  that  made  each  quicken- 
ing breath  almost  intoxicating.  Far  to  the  north, 
projecting  from  the  mainland,  with  blue  sky  above 
and  blue  water  beneath,  we  could  see  from  early 
morning  in  clear  mirage  the  precipitous  cliffs  above 
the  harbor  of  Godhavn.     Here  were  low-lying,  lichen- 


200 


covered  nn-ks,  almost  levol  with  the  sea,  and  icebergs 
iniuinierable.  It  was  an  arctic  scene  far  beyond 
imagining:  a  yky  of  warmth  and  color,  a  sea  of  the 
limpid,  placid  blue  of  the  tropics,  while  in  it,  "  ice, 
mast  high,  went  floating  by,"  not  "  green  as  emerald," 
but  white,  unmixed,  undazzling  white,  "  so  as  no 
fuller  on  earth  could  white  it." 

Nearer  and  nearer  we  drew  to  the  rock-ribbed,  ice- 
encompassed  shore.  One  always  feels  a  quickening 
of  the  pulses  in  approaching  a  strange  coast,  even  on 
the  main-traveled  highw-ays  of  the  world,  but  we 
were  nearing  now  a  land  which  had  been  visited  by 
relatively  few  white  men  since  its  Norse  civilization 
was  destroyed  and  William  Baffin  made  it  known 
again  to  the  modern  world.  To  our  minds  it  was 
associated  only  with  all  the  romance  and  heroism 
and  adventure  of  the  seekers  for  the  northwest  pas- 
sage and  for  the  pole,  by  what  explorers  have  called 
the  "  American  route."  A  land  of  unfathomable 
wonder  it  seemed  to  us,  where  day  is  an  unbroken 
brightness  for  half  the  year  and  night  a  darkness  for 
the  other  half,  tempered  only  by  the  light  of  moon 
and  stars ;  w^here  a  dwarfish  race  dress  themselves  in 
the  furs  of  the  animals  upon  which  they  feed,  and  lead 
a  life  whose  conditions  are  wholly  unrealized  in  the 

common  lot  of  men. 

—  Walter  A.  Wyckoff. 

From  '■  WWi  Arctic  IligltlunderH,^^  hy perininiiion. 


201 


PASSING   THE   ICEBERGS 

A  FEARLESS  shape  of  brave  device, 

Our  vessel  drives  through  mist  and  rain, 

Between  the  floating  fleets  of  ice  — 
The  navies  of  the  northern  main. 

These  arctic  ventures,  blindly  hurled. 
The  proofs  of  nature's  olden  force. 

Like  fragments  of  a  crystal  world, 
Long  shattered  from  its  skyey  course. 

These  are  the  buccaneers  that  fright 
The  middle  sea  with  dream  of  wrecks, 

And  freeze  the  south  winds  in  their  flight. 
And  chain  the  Gulf  Stream  to  their  decks. 

At  every  dragon  prow  and  helm 

There  stands  some  viking  as  of  yore ; 

Grim  heroes  from  the  boreal  realm 
Where  Odin  rules  the  spectral  shore. 

And  oft  beneath  the  sun  or  moon 

Their  swift  and  eager  falchions  glow, 

While,  like  a  storm-vexed  wind,  the  rune 
Comes  chafing  through  some  beard  of  snow. 


20;^ 


And  wluMi  llie  far  north  flashes  up 
Willi  lircs  of   iniiigltHl  red  and  gold, 

They  know  that  many  a  hhizing  cup 
Is  hrininiing  to  the  absent  bold. 

Up  signal  then,  and  let  us  hail 

Yon  looming  phantom  as  we  pass ! 

Note  all  her  fashion,  hull,  and  sail. 
Within  the  compass  of  your  glass. 

See  at  her  mast  the  steadfast  glow 
Of  that  one  star  of  Odin's  throne ; 

Up  with  our  flag,  and  let  us  show 
The  constellation  on  our  own. 

And  speak  her  well ;  for  she  might  say. 
If  from  her  heart  the  words  could  flow, 

Great  news  from  some  far  frozen  bay. 
Or  the  remotest  Eskimo  ; 

Might  tell  of  channels  yet  untold. 
That  sweep  the  pole  from  sea  to  sea; 

Of  lands  which  God  designs  to  hold 
A  mighty  people  yet  to  be ; 

Of  wonders  which  alone  prevail, 

\Vhere  day  and  darkness  dimly  meet ; 

Of  all  which  spreads  the  arctic  sail ; 
Of  Franklin  and  his  venturous  fleet ; 


203 

How,  haply,  at  some  glorious  goal 

His  anchor  holds  —  his  sails  are  furled ; 

That  Fame  has  named  him  on  her  scroll, 
"  Columbus  of  the  Polar  World." 

Or  how  his  plowing  barks  wedge  on 

Through  splintering  fields  with  battered  shares, 
Lit  only  by  that  spectral  dawn, 

The  mask  that  mocking  darkness  wears ; 

Or  how,  o'er  embers  black  and  few, 
The  last  of  shivered  masts  and  spars. 

He  sits  among  his  frozen  crew 
In  council  with  the  norland  stars. 

No  answer  —  but  the  swollen  flow 
Of  ocean  heaving  long  and  vast ;  — 

An  argosy  of  ice  and  snow, 

The  voiceless  north  swings  proudly  past. 

—  T.  Buchanan  Read. 


Why  does  the  sea  moan  evermore  ? 
Shut  out  from  heaven  it  makes  its  moan, 
It  frets  against  the  boundary  shore ; 
All  earth's  full  rivers  cannot  fill 
The  sea,  that  drinking  thirsteth  still. 

—  Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


204 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE 


Rir  Van  Winkle  was  a  good-natured,  shiftless 
man  who  lived  during  the  old  colonial  times  in  a 
village  at  the  foot  of  the  Catskills.  One  day,  with 
his  dog  and  gun,  he  wandered  far  up  the  mountains, 
and  there  meeting  with  some  strange  dwarfs,  he 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep  which  lasted  twenty  years. 
"When  he  awoke  it  seemed  to  him  that  only  one  night 
had  passed.  But,  in  truth,  he  had  become  an  old 
man,  his  beard  had  grown  long,  and  his  clothes  had 
fallen  into  tatters.  He  made  his  way  slowly  to  the 
village,  wondering  w^hat  had  happened. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door 
of  the  inn,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very 
character  of  the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was 
a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of 
the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He 
looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his 
broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  con- 
tents of  an  ancient  newspaper. 

In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with 
his  pocket  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing  vehe- 
mently about  rights  of  citizens,  elections,  members  of 


206 


206 


(Vmsjiress,  liberty,  Bunkers  Hill,  heroes  of  seventy-six, 
and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jar- 
gon to  tlu'  bewildered  \'an  W  inkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled 
beard,  his  rusty  fowling  piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and 
an  army  of  \vomen  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with 
great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and, 
drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  on  which  side  he 
voted.  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short 
but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and, 
rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear  whether  he  was 
Federal  or  Democrat. 

Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  ques- 
tion, when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman, 
in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  putting  them  to  right  and  left  with  his  elbows 
as  he  passed,  and,  planting  himself  before  Van  Win- 
kle, wdth  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his 
cane,  demanded,  in  an  austere  tone,  what  brought  him 
to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  a  mob 
at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot 
in  the  village.  "  Alas  !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  some- 
what dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of 
the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  King,  God  bless 
him ! " 


207 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders : 
"  A  Tory  !  a  Tory  !  a  spy  !  a  refugee  !  hustle  him  ! 
away  with  him  !  "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  or- 
der ;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow, 
demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what  he 
came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor 
man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but 
merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors, 
who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well,  who  are  they  ?  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where's  Nicholas  Vedder  ?  "  There  was  a  silence  for 
a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  replied,  in  a  thin,  pip- 
ing voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder  !  wh}^,  he  is  dead  and  gone 
these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden  tomb- 
stone in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about 
him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too."  "  Where's 
Brom  Dutcher?"  "Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  Some  say  he  was  killed 
at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point;  others  say  he  was 
drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Anthony's  Nose. 
I  don't  know  ;  he  never  came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?  "  '  "  He 
went  off  to  the  wars,  too  ;  was  a  great  militia  general, 
and  is  now  in  Congress."  Rip's  heart  died  away  at 
hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his  home  and  friends, 


208 

ami  liiuliiig  hinisclf  tlius  alone  in  the  world.  Every 
answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enor- 
mous lapses  of  tiuu'.  and  of  matters  which  he  could 
not  understand,  —  war,  Congress,  Stony  Point.  He 
had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but 
cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip 
Van  Winkle?" 

'*  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three. 
"Oh,  to  be  sure!  That's  Rip  Van  Winkle,  yonder, 
leaning  against  the  tree."  Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a 
precise  counterpart  of  himself  as  he  went  up  the  moun- 
tain ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged. 
The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded ; 
he  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was 
himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewil- 
derment, the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who 
he  was,  and  what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows ! "  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end. 
"I'm  not  myself,  —  I'm  somebody  else.  That's  me 
yonder,  —  no,  that's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes. 
I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  they've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's 
changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what's  my 
name,^or  who  I  am  !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.     There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  se- 


209 

curing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing 
mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self-im- 
portant man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  pre- 
cipitation. At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at 
the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in 
her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to 
cry.  "  Hush,  Rip  !  "  cried  she  ;  "  hush  !  the  old  man 
won't  hurt  you." 

The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections 
in  his  mind.  "What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ? " 
asked  he.  "  Judith  Gardenier."  "  And  your  father's 
name  ?  "  "  Ah,  poor  man  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his 
name,  but  it's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from 
home  with  his  gun,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since. 
His  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot 
himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.     I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask,  but  he  put 
it  with  a  faltering  voice :  "  Where's  your  mother  ? " 
"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she 
broke  a  blood  vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  Eng- 
land peddler."  There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least, 
in  this  intelligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain 
himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her 
child   in   his  arms.     "  I  am  your  father !  "   cried  he. 

VIII.  —  14 


210 

'•  Yoini^:;  Uiii  \';iii  W  iiikh^  once,  old  Rip  Van  Winkle 
now  !      Dors  nobody  know   poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering 
ont  from  among  the  crowd,  |iut  iicr  hand  to  her  brow 
and,  peering  under  it  in  liis  lace  for  a  moment,  ex- 
claimed, "■  Sure  enongh  !  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  it  is 
himself.  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty 
long  years  ?  "  Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole 
twenty  years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up, 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her.  She  had  a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a 
stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband.  Rip  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies ;  but  preferred  making 
friends-  among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he 
soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Adapted  from  "  The  Sketch  Book."  WASHINGTON    IrVING. 

THE   BELLS 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  the  bells, 

Silver  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 


I 


211 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 
And  alt  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 


212 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbuleucy  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 


213 

By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells. 

—  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


LITTLE   GAVROCHE 

Years  ago  there  might  have  been  noticed  on  the 
streets  of  Paris  a  boy  of  eleven  or  twelve  years  of 
age,  who  was  known  by  the  name  of  Little  Gavroche. 
This  child  was  dressed  in  a  man's  trousers  and  a 
woman's  jacket,  in  which  some  kind  persons  had 
clothed  him  out  of  charity. 

Little  Gavroche  was  never  so  comfortable  any- 
where as  in  the  street.  He  was  a  noisy,  pale,  active, 
sharp,  impudent  lad,  with  a  cunning  and  sickly  look. 
He  came  and  went,  sang,  played  at  hopscotch, 
searched  the  gutters,  stole  a  little,  but  gayly,  like  cats 


214 

and  sparrows,  laup^hed  wlien  he  was  called  a  scamp, 
and  lelt  angr}-  when  he  was  called  a  thief.  He  had 
no  bed,  no  bread,  no  lire,  no  love ;  but  he  was  happy 
because  he  was  free. 

One  evening  in  tlie  early  spring,  when  the  breezes 
were  blowing  sharply,  so  sharply  that  January  seemed 
to  have  returned,  and  the  citizens  had  put  on  their 
cloaks  again,  little  Gavroche,  still  shivering  gayly 
under  his  rags,  was  standing  as  if  in  ecstasy  in  front 
of  a  liairdresser's  shop.  He  was  adorned  with  a 
woolen  shawl,  picked  up  no  one  knew  where,  of 
which  he  had  made  a  muffler.  Little  Gavroche  ap- 
peared to  be  lost  in  admiration  of  a  waxen  image  of 
a  bride,  with  a  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  in  her 
hair,  w^hich  revolved  between  two  lamps  in  the  win- 
dow. But  in  reality  he  was  watching  the  shop  to  see 
whether  he  could  not  snatch  a  cake  of  soap,  which  he 
would  afterward  sell  to  a  barber  in  the  suburbs. 

While  Gavroche  was  examining  the  bride,  the  win- 
dow, and  the  soap,  he  saw  two  boys,  very  decently 
dressed,  both  younger  than  himself,  timidly  open  the 
door  and  enter  the  shop.  They  both  spoke  together, 
asking  for  charity.  Their  words  were  unintelligible, 
because  sobs  choked  the  voice  of  the  younger  boy  and 
cold  made  the  teeth  of  the  elder  rattle.  The  barber, 
without  laying  down  his  razor,  drove  them  into  the 
street,  and  closed  the  door. 


215 

The  two  lads  set  off  again,  crying.  A  cloud  had 
come  up  in  the  meanwhile,  and  rain  began  to  fall. 
Little  Gavroche  ran  up  to  them. 

"  What  is  the  matter  Avith  you  ? "  he  asked. 

"  We  don't  know  where  to  sleep,"  the  elder  replied. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Gavroche.  "  Is  that  anything 
to  cry  about,  simpletons  ?  "  And  assuming  an  accent 
of  tender  care  and  gentle  protection,  he  said,  — 

"  Come  with  me,  boys." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  elder  boy. 

And  the  two  children  followed  him  as  they  would 
have  done  an  archbishop,  and  left  off  crying. 

As  they  went  along  the  street,  Gavroche  noticed  a 
little  girl  shivering  in  a  gateway. 

"  Poor  girl,"  said  Gavroche.     "  Here,  take  this." 

And  taking  off  the  good  woolen  garment  which  he 
had  around  his  neck  he  threw  it  over  the  thin,  bare 
shoulders  of  the  beggar  girl,  where  the  muffler  became 
once  again  a  shawl.  The  little  girl  looked  at  him  with 
an  astonished  air,  and  received  the  shawl  in  silence. 

The  shower,  redoubling  its  passion,  poured  down. 

•'  Hello  !  "  Gavroche  shouted.  ''  What's  the  meaning 
of  this?     It  is  raining  again." 

And  he  went  on,  shivering  with  the  cold. 

'"'  No  matter,"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  glance  at  the 
beggar  girl  crouching  under  her  shawl,  "  she's  got 
something  to  cover  her  anyway." 


216 

The  two  children  Hiiiped  after  him,  and  as  they 
passed  a  baker's  shop,  Gavroche  turned  round. 

"  By  the  by,  boys,  have  you  dined  ?  " 

"  We  have  liad  nothing  to  eat,  sir,  since  early  this 
morning,"  the  elder  answered. 

Gavroche  stopped,  and  for  some  minutes  searched 
through  his  rags.  At  length  he  raised  his  head  with 
an  air  of  triumph,  — 

"  Calm  yourselves  ;  here  is  supper  for  three ; " 
and  he  drew  a  coin  from  one  of  his  pockets.  With- 
out giving  the  lads  time  to  feel  amazed,  he  pushed 
them  both  before  him  into  the  baker's  shop,  and  laid 
his  money  on  the  counter,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Bread  for  three ! " 

When  the  bread  was  cut,  Gavroche  said  to  the  two 
boys,— 

"  Eat  away." 

At  the  same  time  he  gave  each  of  them  a  lump  of 
bread.  There  was  one  piece  smaller  than  the  two 
others,  and  he  took  that  for  himself.     Then  he  said, — 

"  Let  us  return  to  the  street,"  and  they  started 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  Bastile.  From  time  to 
time,  as  they  passed  lighted  shops,  the  younger  boy 
stopped  to  see  what  time  it  was. 


Some  years  back  there  might  have  been  seen  in 
the  southeastern  corner  of  the  square  of  the  Bastile 


217 

a  quaint  monument.  It  was  an  elephant,  forty  feet 
high,  constructed  of  carpentry  and  masonry.  On  its 
back  it  bore  a  castle  which  resembled  a  house,  once 
painted  green  by  some  plasterer,  and  now  painted 
black  by  the  rain  and  by  time. 

In  this  deserted  corner  of  the  square,  the  wide 
forehead  of  the  elephant,  its  trunk,  its  tusks,  its 
castle,  its  enormous  back,  and  its  four  feet,  like  col- 
umns, produced  at  night  a  surprising  and  terrible 
outline.  No  one  knew  what  it  meant,  and  no  passer- 
by looked  at  it.  It  was  falling  in  ruins,  and  each 
season,  plaster  becoming  detached  from  its  flanks, 
made  horrible  wounds  upon  it.  It  was  to  this  huge 
structure  that  Gavroche  led  the  two  urchins. 

On  coming  near  the  colossus,  Gavroche  understood 
the  effect  which  the  very  great  may  produce  on  the 
very  little,  and  said,  — 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  little  ones." 

A  ladder,  used  by  workmen  during  the  day,  was 
lying  near  the  monument.  Gavroche  raised  it  with 
singular  vigor  and  placed  it  against  one  of  the 
elephant's  fore  legs.  At  the  point  where  the  ladder 
ended,  a  sort  of  black  hole  could  be  distinguished  in 
the  body  of  the  colossus.  Gavroche  pointed  out  the 
ladder  and  the  hole  to  his  guests,  and  said, — 

"  Go  up,  and  go  in."  The  two  little  boys  looked 
at  each  other  in  terror. 


218 

"  You  are  frighteued  !  "  Gavroclie  exclaimed,  and 
added,  '"  You  shall  see." 

He  cliiiiu  around  tlie  elephant's  wrinkled  foot,  and 
in  a  twinkling,  without  deigning  to  use  the  ladder,  he 
reached  the  hole.  He  went  in  like  a  lizard  gliding 
into  a  crevice,  and  a  moment  after  the  boys  saw  his 
head  appear  on  the  edge  of  the  hole. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  "come  up,  my  blessed  babes. 
You  will  see  how  snug  it  is.  Come  up,  you,"  he  said 
to  the  elder.     •'  I  will  hold  your  hand." 

The  elder  boy  ventured,  and  the  younger,  on  seeing 
himself  left  alone  between  the  feet  of  this  great  beast, 
felt  much  inclined  to  cry,  but  did  not  dare.  The 
elder  climbed  up  the  rungs  of  the  ladder  in  a  very 
tottering  way,  and  as  he  did  so  Gavroche  encouraged 
him  by  exclaiming, — 

"  Don't  be  frightened  I  That  is  it  —  keep  on  mov- 
ing ;  set  your  foot  there  ;  now  your  hand  here  — 
bravo !  " 

And  when  he  was  within  reach,  Gavroche  quickly 
and  powerfully  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  drew  him 
in. 

"  Swallowed ! "  he  said.  The  boy  had  passed 
through  the  crevice. 

"  Now,"  said  Gavroche,  "  wait  for  me.  Pray  sit 
down,  sir." 

And  leaving  the  hole  in  the  same  way  as  he  had 


219 

entered  it,  he  slid  down  the  elephant's  leg  with  the 
agility  of  a  monkey,  and  fell  on  his  feet  in  the  grass. 
Seizing  the  younger  boy  around  the  waist,  he  planted 
him  in  the  middle  of  the  ladder.  Then  he  began 
ascending  behind  him,  shouting  to  the  elder  boy,  — 

"  I'll  push  him  and  you  pull  him." 

In  a  second  the  little  fellow  was  pushed,  dragged, 
pulled,  and  drawn  through  the  hole,  before  he  knew 
where  he  was ;  and  Gavroche,  entering  after  him, 
kicked  away  the  ladder,  and  clapped  his  hands  as  he 
shouted,  — 

"  There  we  are  !  Long  live  General  Lafayette  !  " 
This  explosion  over,  he  added,  — 

"  Boys,  you  are  in  my  house." 

Gavroche  was,  in  fact,  at  home.  Oh,  goodness  of 
the  giants  !  This  huge  monument  had  become  the 
lodging  of  a  waif.  The  people  who  passed  by  the 
elephant  of  the  Bastile  were  prone  to  look  at  it  scorn- 
fully and  say,  — 

"  Of  what  use  is  that  ?  " 

Yet  it  served  to  save  from  cold,  from  frost,  from 
damp,  from  wind  and  rain,  a  little  fatherless, 
motherless  boy,  without  bread,  clothes,  or  shelter. 

The  hole  by  which  Gavroche  entered  was  scarcely 
visible  from  the  outside,  as  it  was  concealed  under 
the  elephant's  body,  and  so  narrow  that  only  cats 
and  boys  could  pass  through  it. 


220 

"Let  lis  begin,"  said  Gavroche,  "by  telling  the 
porter  that  we  are  not  at  home." 

And  plunging  into  the  darkness,  he  took  a  plank 
and  stopped  up  the  hole.  Gavroche  plunged  again 
into  the  darkness.  The  children  heard  the  fizzing  of 
a  match.  A  sudden  light  made  them  wink.  Gavroche 
had  lit  a  bit  of  string  dipped  in  pitch,  and  this  thing, 
which  gave  more  smoke  than  light,  made  the  inside 
of  the  elephant  indistinctly  visible. 

An  entire  gigantic  skeleton  was  to  be  seen.  The 
pieces  which  had  fallen  from  the  elephant's  back  had 
filled  up  the  cavity,  so  that  it  was  possible  to  walk  on 
it  as  on  a  flooring. 

Gavroche's  two  guests  looked  fearfully  into  the 
dark  corners.  The  younger  lad  nudged  his  brother 
and  said,  — 

"  How  black  it  is !  " 

This  remark  made  Gavroche  cry  out,  — 

"  It  is  outside  that  it  is  black.  Outside  it  rains, 
and  here  it  does  not  rain.  Outside  it  is  cold,  and 
here  there  is  not  a  breath  of  wind.  Outside  there  is 
not  even  the  moon,  and  here  there  is  a  candle." 

The  two  lads  began  looking  around  the  apartment 
with  less  terror,  but  Gavroche  did  not  allow  them 
any  time  for  meditation. 

"  Quick  !  "  he  said.  And  he  thrust  them  toward 
that  end  of  the  room  where  his  bed  was. 


221 

Gavroche's  bed  had  a  mattress,  a  coverlet,  and  an 
alcove  with  curtains.  The  mattress  was  a  straw  mat, 
and  the  coverlet  was  a  blanket  of  coarse  gray  wool, 
very  warm,  and  nearly  new.  This  is  what  the  alcove 
was,  —  three  long  props  were  driven  into  th^  plaster 
soil,  two  in  front  and  one  behind,  so  as  to  form  a 
hollow  pyramid.  These  props  supported  a  grating  of 
brass  wire  that  entirely  surrounded  the  three  poles. 
A  row  of  large  stones  fastened  the  latticework  down 
to  the  ground,  so  that  nothing  could  pass. 

Gavroche's  bed  was  under  the  wirework,  as  in  a 
cage,  and  the  whole  resembled  an  Eskimo's  tent. 
Gavroche  moved  a  few  of  the  stones  that  held  down 
the  latticework  in  front,  and  shouted  to  the  lads,  — 

"  Now  then,  crawl  in." 

He  made  his  guests  enter  the  cage  cautiously,  then 
went  in  after  them,  brought  the  stones  together 
again,  and  closed  the  opening.  They  lay  down  all 
three  on  the  mat.  Gavroche  still  held  the  candle  in 
his  hand. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  go  to  sleep  ;  I  am  going  to  put 
out  the  light." 

"  What  is  that  for,  sir  ?  "  the  elder  of  the  lads 
asked  Gavroche,  pointing  to  the  brass  grating. 

"That,"  said  Gavroche,  gravely,  "is  on  account  of 
the  rats.     Go  to  sleep  !  " 

Still  he  continued,  — 


222 

"It  came  from  the  park,  and  is  employed  to  guard 
ferocious  animals." 

Wliile  speaking,  Gavroebe  wrapped  up  the  little 
boy  in  the  blanket,  who  iiiurmuri'd, — 

"  Oh,  that  is  nice,  it  is  so  warm  ! " 

Gavroche  took  a  glance  of  satisfaction  at  the 
coverlet. 

"  That  also  comes  from  the  park,"  he  said ;  "  I  took 
it  from  the  monkeys." 

And  pointing  out  to  the  elder  one  the  thick  straw 
mat  on  which  he  was  lying,  he  added,  — 

"  That  belonged  to  the  giraffe." 

After  a  pause  he  continued,  — 

''  The  beasts  had  all  these  things,  and  I  took  them 
from  them.  They  were  not  at  all  angry,  for  I  told 
them  that  I  wanted,  them  for  the  elephant." 

The  younger  lad  had  his  eyes  wide  open,  but  said 
nothing.  As  he  was  on  the  edge  of  the  mat,  the 
elder  being  in  the  center,  Gavroche  tucked  the  cover- 
let around  him  as  a  mother  would  have  done.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  elder  boy. 

"  Well,  it  is  jolly  here,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  lad  answered,  as  he  looked  at 
Gavroche  gratefully. 

The  two  poor  little  fellows,  who  had  been  wet 
through,  began  to  grow  warm  again.  At  this  moment 
a  drop  of  pitch  fell  on  Gavroche' s  hand. 


223 

"  See  !  "  he  said,  "  the  match  is  wearing  out.  Pay- 
attention  !  When  people  go  to  bed  they  are  expected 
to  go  to  sleep." 

The  storm  grew  more  furious,  and  through  the 
thunder  peals  the  rain  could  be  heard  pattering  on 
the  back  of  the  colossus. 

"  Wrap  yourselves  well  in  the  blanket,  children," 
said  Gavroche,  ''  for  I  am  going  to  put  the  light  out. 
Are  you  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  elder  boy,  "  I  am  all  right,  and 
feel  as  if  I  had  a  feather  pillow  under  my  head." 

The  two  lads  crept  close  together ;  Gavroche  made 
them  comfortable  on  the  mat,  and  pulled  the  blanket 
up  to  their  ears.  Then  he  repeated  for  the  third 
time,  — 

"  Go  to  sleep." 

And  he  blew  out  the  rope's  end.  The  light  was 
scarce  extinguished  before  a  singular  trembling  began 
to  shake  the  trelliswork  under  which  the  three  chil- 
dren were  lying.  It  was  a  multitude  of  dull  rubbings, 
as  if  claws  and  teeth  were  assailing  th^  copper  wire. 
This  was  accompanied  by  all  sorts  of  little  shrill 
cries. 

The  little  boy  of  five  years  of  age,  hearing  this 
noise  above  his  head,  was  chilled  with  terror.  He 
nudged  his  elder  brother,  but  he  was  sleeping  already, 
as  Gavroche  had  ordered  him.     Then  the  little  one, 


224 

unable  to  hold  owl  ;iny  longer  for  fright,  dared  to 
address  Gavroclie,  but  in  a  very  low  voice. 

-Sir?" 

"  Hello  !  "  said  Gavroche,  who  had  just  closed  his 
eyes. 

-'What  is  that?" 

"  It's  the  rats,"  Gavroche  answered.  And  he  laid 
his  head  again  on  the  mat. 

"  Sir  ?  "  he  began  again. 

"  Well  ?  "  Gavroche  asked. 

"  What  are  rats  ?  " 

"  They  are  mice." 

This  explanation  slightly  reassured  the  child,  for 
he  had  seen  white  mice  in  his  life  and  had  not  been 
afraid  of  them.     Still,  he  trembled  with  fear. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Gavroche,  "  they  can't 
get  in.  And  then,  I  am  here.  Stay ;  take  my  hand  ; 
hold  your  tongue  and  go  to  sleep." 

The  night  hours  passed  away ;  darkness  covered 
the  immense  Bastile  square.  A  winter  wind,  which 
was  mingled  with  rain,  blew  in  gusts.  The  patrols 
examined  doors  and  dark  corners,  searching  for  vaga- 
bonds, and  passed  silently  before  the  elephant.  The 
monster,  erect  and  motionless,  with  its  eyes  open  in 
the  darkness,  sheltered  from  the  sky  and  rain  the 
three  poor  sleeping  children.  — Victor  Hugo. 

From  "  Lta  Miaerablea." 


225 


ORATION   OF   MARK   ANTONY 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears ; 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do,  lives  after  them; 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar !     The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you,  Caesar  was  ambitious : 

If  it  were  so,  it  were  a  grievous  fault. 

And  grievously  hath  Csesar  answered  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, 

( For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man  ; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men ;) 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me : 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coif  ers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept; 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff ; 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
You  all  did  see,  that,  on  the  Lupercal, 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition  ? 

vin.  — 15 


226 

Yt't   r>nilus  says  he  was  ainhilions, 
Anil  siiro,  he  is  an  honoralilo  man. 
1  speak  not  to  disprove  w  hat  Hriitus  spake, 
lUit  lien'  I  am  to  speak  what  J  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause  ; 
What  eause  withhokls  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 
0  judgment,  tliou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason  !     Bear  with  me ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin,  there,  with  Caasar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 
******* 
But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Csesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world ;  now  lies  he  there. 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters !  if  I  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wi'ong, 
Who,  3'ou  all  know,  are  honorable  men : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Cassar ; 
I  found  it  in  his  closet,  'tis  his  will ; 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 
(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read,) 
And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 


227 


"IF  YOU  HAVE  TEARS,  PREPARE  TO  SHED  THEM  NOW. 


228 

Yea,  bog  a  hair  of  him  lor  iiieinory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills. 
Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 
Unto  their  issue. 

Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not  read  it 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Ciesar  loved  you ; 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs; 
For  if  you  should,  oh,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

Will  you  be  patient  ?     Will  you  wait  awhile  ? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar.     I  do  fear  it. 
You  will  compel  me  then  to  read  the  will  ? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the.  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 

\He  conies  down  fwrn  the  pulpit.^ 
If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle :  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  : 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii ; 
Look !  in  this  place,  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through  ; 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made ; 
Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed  ; 


229 

And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it. 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 

For,  when  the  noble  Csesar  saw  him  stab. 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Quite  vanquished  him,  then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Great  Caesar  fell. 
Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down. 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 
Oh,  now  you  weep  ;  and  I  perceive  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity.     These  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls !     AMiat,  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 
Our  CaBsar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here. 
Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  by  traitors. 

1st  Citizen.  0  piteous  spectacle ! 

2d  Citizen.    0  noble  Caesar  ! 

3<i  Citizen.  \\q  will  be  revenged  !  Revenge  !  about, — 
Seek,  —  burn,  —  fire,  —  kill,  —  slay  !  — ■  let  not  a  trai- 
tor live. 

Antony.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir 
you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reason  answer  you. 
I  came  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 


230 

1  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is; 

JUit,  as  you  know  me  till,  a  plain,  blunt  man, 

That  loves  my  friend  ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 

For  I  liave  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech. 

To  stir  men's  blood.     1  only  speak  right  on : 

I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 

Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor,  dumb 

mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me.     And-  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

—  Shakespeare. 

From  ■'  Julius  Casar.'''' 

A   DAY   IN   JUNE 

AxD  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune. 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might. 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers. 


231 

And  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves. 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world  and  she  to  her  nest  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 
Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  rippling  cheer. 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  riglit  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 


232 

That  skies  are  clear  aiul  grass  is  growing; 
The  breeze  comes  wliispering  in  our  ear, 
That  ilaiKh'lioiis  are  hlossoiuing  near, 

Tiiat  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  tlie  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  the  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue  — 

'Tis  the  natural  wa}'  of  living ; 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled? 

In  the  imscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed. 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burned-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 


233 


SPEECH   AND   SILENCE 

1.  He  who  speaks  honestly  cares  not,  needs  not 
care,  though  his  words  be  preserved  to  remotest  time. 
The  dishonest  speaker,  not  he  only  who  purposely 
utters  falsehoods,  but  he  who  does  not  purposely,  and 
with  sincere  heart,  utter  Truth,  and  Truth  alone ; 
who  babbles  he  knows  not  what,  and  has  clapped  no 
bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets  it  run  racket,  ejecting 
chatter  and  futility,  —  is  among  the  most  indisputa- 
ble malefactors  omitted,  or  inserted,  in  the  Criminal 
Calendar. 

2.  To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  idle  speaking 
is  precisely  the  beginning  of  all  Hollo wness,  Halfness, 
Infidelity  (want  of  Faithfulness) ;  the  genial  atmos- 
phere in  which  rank  weeds  of  every  kind  attain  the 
mastery  over  noble  fruits  in  man's  life,  and  utterly 
choke  them  out :  one  of  the  most  crying  maladies  of 
these  days,  and  to  be  testified  against,  and  in  all  ways 
to  the  uttermost  withstood. 

3.  Wise,  of  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow 
depth,  was  that  old  precept:  "Watch  thy  tongue; 
out  of  it  are  the  issues  of  Life  !  "  Man  is  properly  an 
incarnated  tvord :  the  ivord  that  he  speaks  is  the  man 
himself.  Were  eyes  put  into  our  head,  that  we  might 
see,  or  that  we  might  fancy,  and  plausibly  pretend, 
we  had  seen  ?    Was  the  tongue  suspended  there,  that 


234 

it  might  toll  truly  what  we  had  seen,  and  make  man 
the  soiil's-brother  of  man  ;  or  only  that  it  might  utter 
vain  sounds,  jargon,  soul-confusing,  and  so  divide 
man.  as  by  enchanted  walls  of  Darkness,  from  union 
with  man  ? 

4.  Thou  who  wearest  that  cunning,  heaven-made 
organ,  a  Tongue,  think  well  of  this.  Speak  not,  I 
passionately  entreat  thee,  till  thy  thought  have 
silently  matured  itself,  till  thou  have  other  than 
mad  and  mad-making  noises  to  emit :  hold  thy 
tongue  till  soyne  meaning  lie  behind,  to  set  it 
wagging. 

5.  Consider  the  significance  of  Silence  :  it  is 
boundless,  never  by  meditating  to  be  exhausted, 
unspeakably  profitable  to  thee !  Cease  that  chaotic 
hubbub,  wherein  thy  own  soul  runs  to  waste,  to  con- 
fused suicidal  dislocation  and  stupor ;  out  of  Silence 
comes  thy  strength.  "  Speech  is  silvern.  Silence  is 
golden;  Speech  is  human,  Silence  is  divine." 

6.  Fool !  thinkest  thou  that  because  no  one  stands 
near  with  parchment  and  blacklead  to  note  thy  jargon, 
it  therefore  dies  and  is  harmless  ?  Nothing  dies, 
nothing  can  die.  No  idlest  word  thou  speakest 
but  is  a  seed  cast  into  Time,  and  grows  through  all 
Eternity !  The  Recording  Angel,  consider  it  well, 
is  no  fable,  but  the  truest  of  truths. 

—  Thomas  Carlyle. 


235 


OPPORTUNITY 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream : 

There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain, 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 

A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 

Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  banner 

Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought :  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears  —  but  this 

Blunt  thing "  he  snapped  and  flung  it  from  his 

hand. 
And,  lowering,  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 
Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand. 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle  shout 
Lifted  afresh,  he  hewed  his  enemy  down 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

—  Edwaki>  Rowland  Sill. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men. 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 

—  Shake.speare. 


236 


11 1 1:    MVSTEHV    OF    LIFE 

Though  1  am  no  poi't.  I  liave  dreams  sometimes: 
—  I  dreaiiuMJ  I  was  at  a  child's  May-day  party,  in 
Nvli it'll  evei'y  means  of  entertainment  had  been  pro- 
vided for  the  children  by  a  wise  and  kind  host.  It 
was  in  a  stately  house,  with  beautiful  gardens  at- 
tached to  it ;  and  the  children  had  been  set  free 
in  the  rooms  and  gardens,  with  no  care  whatever 
but  how  to  pass  their  afternoon  rejoicingly. 

They  did  not,  indeed,  know  much  about  what 
was  to  happen  next  day ;  and  some  of  them,  I 
thought,  were  a  little  frightened,  because  there  was 
a  chance  of  their  being  sent  to  a  new  school  where 
there  were  examinations  ;  but  they  kept  the  thoughts 
of  that  out  of  their  heads  as  w^ell  as  they  could,  and 
resolved  to  enjoy  themselves.  The  house,  I  said,  was 
in  a  beautiful  garden,  and  in  the  garden  were  all 
kinds  of  flowers ;  sweet,  grassy  banks  for  rest ;  and 
smooth  lawns  for  play;  and  pleasant  streams  and 
woods;  and  rocky  places  for  climbing. 

And  the  children  w^ere  happy  for  a  little  while,  but 
presently  they  separated  themselves  into  parties ;  and 
then  each  party  declared  it  would  have  a  piece  of  the 
garden  for  its  own,  and  that  none  of  the  others  should 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  piece.  Next,  they  quar- 
reled violently,  which  pieces  they  would  have ;  and 


237 

at  last  the  boys  took  up  the  thing,  as  boys  should 
do,  *' practically,"  and  fought  in  the  flower  beds 
till  there  was  hardly  a  flower  left  standing ;  then 
they  trampled  down  each  other's  bits  of  the  garden 
out  of  spite  ;  and  the  girls  cried  till  they  could  cry 
no  more ;  and  so  they  all  lay  down  at  last  breatlh 
less  in  the  ruin,  and  waited  for  the  time  when  they 
were  to  be  taken  home  in  the  evening. 

Meanwhile,  the  children  in  the  house  had  been 
making  themselves  happy  also  in  their  manner. 
For  them,  there  had  been  provided  every  kind  of 
indoors  pleasure :  there  was  music  for  them  to 
dance  to ;  and  the  library  was  open,  with  all  man- 
ner of  amusing  books ;  and  there  was  a  workshop, 
with  lathes  and  carpenter's  tools  for  the  ingenious 
boys ;  and  there  were  pretty  fantastic  dresses,  for  the 
girls  to  dress  in;  and  a  table,  in  the  dining  room, 
loaded  with  everything  nice  to  eat. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  it  struck  two  or 
three  of  the  more  practical  children,  that  they 
would  like  some  of  the  brass-headed  nails  that 
studded  the  chairs ;  and  so  they  set  to  work  to 
pull  them  out.  Presently,  the  others,  who  were 
reading,  or  looking  at  shells,  took  a  fancy  to  do 
the  like ;  and,  in  a  little  while,  all  the  children, 
nearly,  were  spraining  theii'  lingers  in  pulling  out 
brass-headed  nails.     With  all  that  they  could  pull 


238 

out,  thev  wore  not  satisfied ;  and  then,  everybody 
wanted  some  of  somebody  else's.  The  really  prac- 
tical anil  sensible  ones  declared,  that  nothing  was  of 
any  real  consequence,  that  afternoon,  except  to  get 
plenty  of  brass-headed  nails ;  and  that  the  books, 
and  the  cakes,  and  the  microscopes  were  of  no  use 
at  all  in  themselves,  but  only  if  they  could  be 
exchanged  for  nail-heads. 

And  at  last  they  began  to  fight  for  nail-heads,  as 
the  others  fought  for  the  bits  of  garden.  Only 
here  and  there,  a  despised  one  shrank  away  into  a 
corner,  and  tried  to  get  a  little  quiet  with  a  book, 
in  the  midst  of  the  noise ;  but  all  the  practical 
ones  thought  of  nothing  else  but  counting  nail- 
heads  all  the  afternoon  —  even  though  they  knew 
they  would  not  be  allowed  to  carry  so  much  as  one 
brass  knob  away  with  them. 

But  no  —  it  was  "  Who  has  most  nails  ?  I  have 
a  hundred,  and  you  have  fifty ; "  or,  '*  I  have  a 
thousand  and  you  have  two.  I  must  have  as  many 
as  you  before  I  leave  the  house,  or  I  cannot  possibly 
go  home  in  peace."  At  last  they  made  so  much 
noise  that  I  awoke,  and  thought  to  myself,  '*  What 
a  false  dream  that  is,  of  children.  The  child  is  the 
father  of  the  man ;  and  wiser.  Children  never  do 
such  foolish  things.     Only  men  do." 

—  John  Ruskin. 


239 


OVER   THE    HILL 

"  Traveler,  what  lies  over  the  hill  ? 

Traveler,  tell  to  me : 
I  am  only  a  child  —  from  the  window  sill 

Over  I  cannot  see." 

*'  Child,  there's  a  valley  over  there. 

Pretty  and  wooded  and  shy  ; 
And  a  little  brook  that  says,  '  Take  care, 

Or  I'll  drown  you  by  and  by.' " 

"  And  what  comes  next  ? "     "A  little  town, 

And  a  towering  hill  again  ; 
More  hills  and  valleys,  up  and  down, 

And  a  river  now  and  then." 

^'  And  what  comes  next  ?  "     "A  lonely  moor 

Without  a  beaten  way ; 
And  gray  clouds  sailing  slow  before 

A  wind  that  will  not  stay." 

"  And  then  ? "     *'  Dark  rocks  and  yellow  sand, 

And  a  moaning  sea  beside." 
"And  then  ?  "     "  More  sea,  more  sea,  more  land, 

And  rivers  deep  and  wide." 


240 

"  And  then?"     "  Oli,  rock  and  nionntain  and  vale, 

Kivors  and  fields  and  iiicn, 
Over  and  over  —  a  weary  tale  — 

And  round  to  your  home  again." 

—  Gkokge   Macdunalu. 

THE   SUN    IS   DOWN 

The  sun  is  down,  and  time  gone  by, 

The  stars  are  twinkling  in  the  sky, 

The  hours  have  passed  with  stealthy  flight, 

We  needs  must  part :  Good  night,  good  night ! 

We  part  in  hopes  of  days  as  bright 

As  this  gone  by  :    Good  night,  good  night ! 

—  Joanna  Baillie. 

FINALE 

The  play  is  done  —  the  curtain  drops. 

Slowly  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell ; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops. 

And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ;  — 
Good  night !     With  honest,  gentle  hearts 

And  kindly  greeting,  go  alway  ! 

—  W.  M.  Thackeray. 


I 


APPENDIX 

PRONOUNCING    KEY   AND   WORD   LIST 

The  following  key  to  the  pronunciation  of  words  is 
in  accordance  with  Webster's  International  Dictionary. 
The  silent  letters  are  printed  in  italics.  As  a  rule,  only 
accented  and  doubtful  syllables  are  diacritically  marked. 

The  list  includes  the  proper  names,  together  with  such 
other  words  as  are  most  likely  to  be  misspelled  or  mis- 
pronounced. 


a 

mate 

i 

pine 

u 

rude 

ow 

cow 

a 

mat 

1 

pin 

u 

fur 

c 

can 

ii 

jar 

1 

sir 

u 

full 

9 

^ent 

a 

call 

y 

my 

g 

get 

a 

air 

6 

note 

y 

city 

g 

gem 

a 

ask 

6 

not 

00 

moon 

s 

so 

0 

do 

06 

foot 

§ 

a§ 

e 

we 

oi 

oil 

ch 

chair 

e 

wet 

u 

iise 

oy 

toy 

th 

thin 

e 

her 

ii 

us 

ou 

out 

til 

them 

a  = 

=  o     what 

6=u 

son 

-tion  = 

-shun 

a  = 

=  e     cellar 

5  =  e 

com' 

fOrt 

-sion  = 

-shun 

0  = 

=  a     there 

6  =  a 

6r 

-§i()n  = 

-zhun 

e  = 

=  a     they 

0=00 

wdf 

-tient  = 

-shent 

Q  = 

=  00  move 

VIII.- 

-16 

n=iig 

ink 
241 

-tious  = 

-shus 

242 


A'bra  liuin 
A  brii/.'/.i) 

{-briTTitz-) 
ac  c'om'pu  ni- 

luent 
a  chieve' 
A  elnl'lr-g 
Ad'iuns 
adroit'ness 
a  lac'ri  ty 
A  las'ka 
an'ces  tor 
An'gus 
ap  pel  la'tion 
apprehen'- 

sion 
areli'i  lecture 
As'a  hel 
as  si  du'i  ty 
A  the'ni  an 
Ath'ens 
At'kin  son 
A'tri 

at  tend' ant 
at'ti  tude 
A^'burn 
Aus  tra'li  an 
Aws'tri  an 
Au  vergne 

(o  varh') 


av'a  lanc^'he 
iiz'nve 


czar 


9«;'§ar 

cam  piiign' 

caiion  {cdn'yon)  Dam  fre  ville' 


ca  pay'i  ty 
Ciis'si  us 
Ca  tbiiy 
Cats' kill 
cav  a  Ker' 


l)al'ilric 

lial'ti  more 

bap  tig'mal 

Bas  tile' 

be  liav'ior 

Belle  Au  rore'  (^e'gil 

bel  lig'er  ent     ge  ler'i  ty 

bgl'lum 

be  nev'o  lent 

Berke'ley 


bev'er  age 
Blen'heim 
Blount 
Bo'az 


De  Kalb' 
del'e  gate 
del'i  cate  ly 
de§  liil  bille' 
Dev'on  shire 
dis  sev'er 
di  ver'sion 
dol'phin 
Doug'las 
dra  mat'ic 
du  61'lum 


qe  les'tial 
gSr'e  mo  ny 
eha  ot'ic 
gha  teau 
(shd  to') 

^ha  van  iac'  East  In'dieg 

Ches'a  peake  el'e  gy 

Bon'ni  cas  tie    Qhiv'al  ry  E  liz'a  beth 

Both'well  choc'olate  el'o  quenge 

Bran'dy  wine    cicala  (^cht  kd'ld)em  bar'rass 

Bre  genz'  co  los'sus  en  thu'si  asm 

(-giTnts)  com  pet'i  tor  Es'ki  mo 

Bret'on  (hrlt-)    Con'cord  eu'pho  ny 

Con'stan^e  ex  ec'u  trix 
Co  pen  ha'gen  ex  haws'tion 
BromDutch'er  Corn  wal'lis 

Bru'tus  coun'ter  feit  Fazr'weath  er 

bry'on  y  cow'ri  er  fa?' con 

bwoy'ant  Croi  sick  ege'  Fan'ewil 

Bur  goyne'        crys'tal  line  fem'i  nine 


briek'kilw 
Brit'on 


243 


fis'sure 

Ish'ma  el  ite 

Min'den 

Plym'outh 

frol'ickgd 

mir'a  cle 

p6r'p6<se 

furze 

joc'und 

mo  men'tum 

preg'i  pige 

ju'bi lant 

mo  not'o  nous  pre  ma  tiire' 

Gar'den  ier 

Jii'da^ 

Mo'ses 

pre  sage' 

Ga  roop'na 

Ju'dith 

Mun  roe' 

priv'i  lege 

Ga  VToqhe' 

mjT'i  ad 

pro  vin'gial 

gla'gier 

Lab'ra  dor 

Myr'mi  dons 

Gloucester 

La  fay  ette' 

Uafleigh 

(glos'ter) 

Le'vi 

Ner'vi  i 

lidnqe 

God'liavn 

Lex'ing  ton 

Nieh'o  las 

Rtiv'&loe 

Green'land 

hege'man 

rec'on  gile 

Greve  (grev) 

Lis  soy' 

O'den  se 

Re  Gio  van'ni 

Low'  IS  burg 

O'din 

Reu'ben 

Had'ley 

Low'  vre 

ow'zel 

re  ver'ber  ate 

hag'gard 

Lii'per  cal 

rev'er  end 

Han'cock 

par'a  ble 

rid'i  ciile 

Har'ring  ton 

Ma'lo 

par'al  lei 

Rie\ 

Her've 

Ma  lowin' 

par'lia  ment 

ri'val  ry 

Hogue 

man'i  fest 

pa  thet'ic 

ro\v'el§ 

horn' age 

Marl'bor  6 

Pa  tr5'clus 

Ru'nic 

Mar' mi  on 

peog'ant 

in  car'nat  ed 

Mar'ner 

pe  cul'iar 

St.  Ma'lo 

in  dis'pu  ta  ble  mar'quis 

pen'al  ty 

Scrip'ture§ 

in  sep'a  ra  ble 

mar'velgd 

pen'gil  ing 

scru'pu  lous 

in  ter  rSg'a- 

ma'tron 

Pe'ter  kin 

sen  si  bil'i  ty 

to  ry 

me  lo'di  ous 

Phil  a  del'- 

shagreen' 

in  ter  spersed' 

men'ag  ing 

pliia 

Shan'non 

Ire'land 

Mer'ged 

Pit' crura 

si  er'  ra 

irk 'some 

Mid'i  an 

Pla'to 

Si' las 

244 

Siin'i' on  tain  hruir  in<''  n  nan'i  nions     Wake'field 

sin'i,ni  lar  ly      'Tan  tal'lon  wel'kin 

sl<'u//<ls  tr'p'iil  va'orant  Wil  liel  mine' 

Soc'iii  tt'^  thyme  Van  Bnini'niel  Win'kel  17'ed 

Sol'i  (l(ti-  Tnuv  \'i\\e'  Ved'der  Wo'burn 

splen' e  tic        trOni'n  Ions  ven'erable 

spon  ta'ne  ous  tii  bn'nal  ven'geanye        yeo'man  ry 

Stik'een  tiir'bn  len  y}'  vic'ar 

sfil'phur  ous     Tyr'ol  vo  lii'mi- 
Syn'dic  nous  ly 


245 


NOTES— BIOGRAPHICAL   AND   EXPLANATORY 

Page  9.  Books.  This  selection  is  adapted  from  "Sesame  and 
Lilies,"  a  volume  of  essays  addressed  to  girls,  which  Mr.  Ruskin  pub- 
lished in  1864.  John  Ruskin  was  an  eminent  English  art  critic  and 
author  (1819-1900).  His  writings  are  noted  for  the  strength  and 
purity  of  their  style. 

14.  My  Brute  Neighbors.  Henry  David  Thoreau  (tho'ro),  the 
author  of  '•  Walden  "  and  other  pleasing  books  on  out-door  subjects, 
was  born  at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  1817;  died  there,  1862.  —  duel- 
lum:  a  duel,  a  fight  between  two.  —  belluin  :  war,  a  fight  among  many. 
Myi-midons :  a  reference  to  the  warriors  of  Achilles,  who  were  said  to 
have  been  originally  ants. 

21.  September  Days,  cicala  (che  ka'la)  :  an  insect  commonly 
called  locust,  or  cicada.  George  Arnold  was  an  American  poet  and 
journalist,  born  at  New  York,  1834;  died,  1865. 

22.  Autumn's  Mirth.  Samuel  Minturn  Peck,  an  American  poet, 
was  born  at  Tuskaloosa,  Alabama,  1854. 

23.  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.  This  little  song  is  from  Shake- 
speare's comedy,  "  As  You  Like  It."  —  William  Shakespeare,  the 
greatest  of  English  poets,  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  1654;  died, 
1616. 

24.  The  High  Court  of  Inquiry.  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland,  an  Ameri- 
can author,  was  born  in  Massachusetts,  1819  ;  died  in  New  York,  1881. 
He  was  the  first  editor  of  "  The  Century  Magazine,"  and  the  writer 
of  several  excellent  books,  both  prose  and  poetry.  "  Arthur  Bonni- 
castle,"  his  best  novel,  is  supposed  to  be  partly  an  autobiography. 

31.  Moses  goes  to  the  Fair.  This  extract  is  from  "  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  one  of  the  most  famous  of  English  prose  tales,  publislied 
in  1766.  The  author,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  was  born  at  Pallas,  Ireland, 
1728;  died  at  London,  1774.  —  shacp-f-en  :  a  kind  of  untanned  leather. 

36.  A  Legend  of  Bregenz.  Adelaide  Procter,  an  English  poet,  was 
born  at  London,  1825;  died,  1864. 

43.  Parables.  —  The  first  of  these  parables,  although  usually  at- 
tributed to  Franklin,  is  of  much  earlier  origin.    It  has  been  traced  to 


•24(5 

.lenMiiy  Taylor,  ii  famous  Kiiglish  tlivino  of  tlio  seventeenth  century, 
wlio  pn>l)ably  obtained  it  from  a  still  older  source. 

51.  The  Man  without  a  Country.  The  story  was  orijijinally  pub- 
lislit'd  in  ISttl,  just  at  tiu'  beginning  of  the  Civil  War.  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  the  writer  of  many  helpful 
books,  was  born  at  Boston,  IS'2'2. 

63.  The  Battle  of  Lexington.  George  Bancroft,  a  famous  Ameri- 
can historian  aiul  statesman,  was  born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts, 
1800;  died,  1S91. —  Lonishurg,  a  fortress  on  the  coast  of  Cape  Breton, 
captured  from  the  French  by  New  England  soldiers  in  1745. 

69.  The  Bell  of  Liberty.  Joel  T.  Ileadley,  a  once  popular  Ameri- 
can writer,  was  born  in  New  York,  1818;  died,  1897. 

73.  The  Rising  in  1776.  Thomas  Buchanan  Read,  an  American 
poet  and  painter,  born  in  Pennsylvania,  1822;  died,  1872.  This  selec- 
tion is  an  extract  from  "  The  Wagoner  of  the  Alleghanies,"  published 
in  1862. 

77.  Raleigh  and  Queen  Elizabeth.  'J'his  is  a  selection  from  the 
historical  novel  entitled  "  Kenilworth."  Sir  Walter  Scott,  a  famous 
poet  and  novelist,  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  in  1771 ;  died, 
1832.  —  liegeman:  a  subject  of  a  sovereign  or  lord. 

83.  Silas  Marner  and  Eppie.  George  Eliot  (Marian  Evans),  one 
of  the  greatest  of  English  novelists,  was  born  in  Warwickshire,  Eng- 
land, 1819 ;  died,  1880. 

93.  The  Bell  of  Atri.  This  is  an  old  story  put  into  rhyme. —  Syn- 
dic :  a  chief  magistrate.  —  bryony  (sometimes  spelled,  briony) :  a 
climbing  vine  resembling  the  cucumber.  —  Domeneddio :  equivalent 
in  English  to  "  Lord,  God." 

101.  The  Mocking  Bird.  Alexander  Wilson  (1776-1813)  was  a 
Scottish- American  naturalist. 

102.  The  Water  Ouzel.  Water  ouzel  (or  ousel)  :  sometimes  called 
the  American  dippei-,  a  bird  found  among  the  mountains  and  along 
the  rivers  of  the  AVest.  —  sierra:  a  ridge  of  mountains.  —  carion 
(can'yon)  :  a  narrow  and  very  deep  valley. 

107.  The  Daffodils.  William  Wordsworth  (1770-18.50),  a  famous 
English  poet,  was  the  author  of  many  pleasing  short  poems  relating 
to  nature  or  to  domestic  subjects. 


247 

120.  The  Sea  Voyage.  Charles  Lamb  (1775-1834)  was  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  of  English  essayists.  His  best  works  are  in  the  volume 
entitled  "Essays  of  Elia." 

129.  Oliver  Goldsmith.  This  extract  is  from  an  essay  by  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray,  one  of  the  most  famous  of  English  novelists 
(1811-1863).     See  note  above  referring  to  page  31. 

153.  The  American  Flag.  This  famous  patriotic  lyric,  written  in 
1819,  is  the  only  poem  that  preserves  the  memory  of  its  author, 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  a  once  popular  American  wi-iter  (1795-1820). 

161.  The  Lost  Child.  Henry  Kingsley  (1830-1876)  was  an  English 
novelist  and  journalist.  This  selection  is  an  extract  from  the  novel 
entitled  "  Recollections  of  Geoffrey  Hamlyn  "  (1859).  — pixies :  fairies. 

170.  Herv6  Rial.  Hogue :  a  cape  on  the  coast  of  Holland.  The 
battle  here  referred  to  occurred  May  19,  1692.  —  St.  Malo :  a  town  on 
an  island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ranee  River,  on  the  coast  of  France.  — 
Tourville  :  a.  Freuch  admiral  (1642-1701).  —  Croisicke.se:  an  inhabit- 
ant of  Croisic,  a  fishing  village  at  the  mouth  of  the  Loire. —  Greve: 
the  sandy  shallows  about  the  harbor  of  St.  Malo.  —  Damfreville 
(D'Amfreville)  :  a  brave  French  officer  who  distinguished  himself  in 
the  battle  of  La  Hogue.  —  Robert  Browning:  a  famous  English  poet 
(1812-1889). 

189.  The  Battle  of  Blenheim.  Blenheim  is  a  village  in  Bavaria 
where  the  allied  English,  Germans,  and  Danes  defeated  the  French 
in  a  great  battle,  August  13,  1704.  Robert  Southey  (1774-1843)  was 
a  popular  English  poet  and  prose  writer. 

192.  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  Sir  John  Moore,  a  British  general, 
was  killed  in  battle  at  Coruima,  Spain,  January  10,  1809.  —  Charles 
Wolfe,  an  Irish  clergyman  (1791-1823),  is  remembered  only  as  the 
author  of  this  very  popular  poem. 

210.  The  Bells.  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of 
American  poets,  was  born  at  Boston,  1809;  died  at  Baltimore,  1849. 

213.  Little  Gavroche.  This  selection  is  an  extract  translated  from 
"Les  Miserables,"  a  famous  French  romance  by  Victor  Hugo  (1802- 
1885). 

233.  Speech  and  Silence.  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  celebrated  essayist 
and  historian,  was  born  in  Scotland,  1795;  died  at  London,  England, 
1881. 


THE    GATEWAY     SERIES 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE,  General  Editor 


Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice.      Felix  E.  Schelling,  University  of 

Pennsylvania.      #0.35. 
Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar.     Hamilton  W.  Mabie,  "The  Outlook." 

Shakespeare's  Macbeth.    T.  M.  Parrott,  Princeton  University.    ^0.40. 
Milton's  Minor  Poems.     M.  A.Jordan,  Smith  College.     $0.35. 
Addison's  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers.      C.  T.  Winchester,  Wes- 

leyan  University.      ^0.40. 
Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     James  A.  Tufts,    Phillips  Exeter 

Academy.      §0.45. 
Burke's   Speech    on    Conciliation.        WUliam     MacDonald,    Brown 

University.      $0.35. 
Coleridge's    Ancient    Mariner.       George    E,    Woodberry,    Columbia 

University.      ^0.30. 
Scott's  Ivanhoe.      Francis  H.  Stoddard,  New  York  University,  ^0.50. 
Scott's    Lady    of  the  Lake.       R.    M.    Alden,     Leland    Stanford   Jr. 

University.      ;^o.40. 
Macaulay's   Milton.       Rev.    E.    L.     Gulick,    Lawrenceville    School. 

^0.35. 
Macaulay's  Addison.    Charles  F.  McClumpha,  University  of  Minneaota. 

$0.35. 
Macaulay's  Addison  and  Johnson.      In  one  volume  (McClumpha  and 

Clark).      ^0.45. 
Macaulay's  Life  of  Johnson.     J.  S.  Clark,  Northwestern  University. 

Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns.      Edwin    Mims,    Trinity    College,    North 

Carolina.      ^0.35. 
George    Eliot's    Silas    Marner.       W.    L.    Cross,    Yale    University. 

$0.40. 
Tennyson's   Princess.      K.  L.  Bates,  Wellesley  College.      $0.40. 
Tennyson's  Gareth  and  Lynette,   Lancelot  and   Elaine,  and  The 

Passing    of   Arthur.       Kenry    van    Dyke,    Princeton    University. 

Emerson's  Essays.      Henry  van  Dyke,  Princeton  University.     $0.35. 
Franklin's    Autobiography.       Albert     Henry    Smyth,    Central    High 

School,  Philadelphia. 
Gaskell's    Cranford.      Charles    E.    Rhodes,    Lafayette    High    School, 

Buffalo.     $0.40. 


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WEBSTER'S 
SCHOOL     DICTIONARIES 


Revised   Edirioni 


T 


HESE  Dictionaries  have  been  thoroughly  revised, 
entirely  reset,  and  made  to  conform  to  that  great  stand- 
ard authority — Webster's  International  Dictionary. 


WEBSTER'S  PRIMARY  SCHOOL  DICTION- 
ARY  ^0.48 

Containing  over  zo,ooo  words  and  meanings,  with  over 
400  illuscrations. 

WEBSTER'S  COMMON  SCHOOL  DICTION- 
ARY  J072 

Containing  over  25,000  words  and  meanings,  with  over 
500  illustrations. 

WEBSTER'S  HIGH  SCHOOL  DICTIONARY,  $0.98 

Containing  about  37,000  words  and  definitions,  and  an 
appendix  giving  a  pronouncing  vocabulary  of  Biblical, 
Classical,  Mythological,  Historical,  and  Geographical  proper 
names,  with  over  800  illustrations. 

WEBSTER'S  ACADEMIC  DICTIONARY 

Cloth,  ^1.50;  indexed Jl.80 

Half  Calf,  $2„ 75  ;  Indexed ,      3.00 

Abridged  directly  from  tlie  International  Dictionary,  and 
giving  the  orthography,  pronunciations,  definitions,  and 
synonyms  of  about  60jOoo  words  in  common  use,  with  an 
appendix  containing  various  useful  tables,  with  over  800 
illustrations. 

SPECIAL  EDITIONS 

Webster's  Countinghouse  Dictionary,     Sheep, 

Indexed I2.40 

Webster's  Handy  Dictionary  . 15 

Webster's  Pocket  Dictionary  .      „ 57 

The  same.      Roan,  Flexible      .      .     ,     .        .69 

The  same.      Roan,  Tucks 78 

The  same.      Morocco,  Indexed    ...        .90 


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RODDY'G     GEOGRAPHIES 

By  JUSTIN   RODDY,  M.S.,  Department  of  Geography, 
First  Pennsylvania  State  Normal  School,  Millersville,  Pa. 


Elementary  Geography     .  i^o.50 


Complete  Geography   .     .  ^1.00 


THIS  "information"  series  meets  a  distmct  demand  for 
new  geographies  which  are  thoroughly  up  to  date,  and 
adapted  for  general  use,  rather  than  for  a  particular  use 
in  a  highly  specialized  and  organized  ideal  system.  While 
not  too  technical  and  scientific,  it  includes  sufficient  physio- 
graphic information  for  the  needs  of  most  teachers. 
^  An  adequate  amount  of  material  is  included  in  each  book 
to  meet  the  requirements  of  those  grades  for  which  it  is  designed. 
This  matter  is  presented  so  simply  that  the  pupil  can  readily 
understand  "t,  and  so  logically  that  it  can  easily  be  taught  by 
the  average  teacher. 

\\  The  simplicity  of  the  older  methods  of  teaching  this  subject 
is  combined  with  just  so  much  of  the  modern  scientific  methods 
of  presentation  as  is  thoroughly  adapted  to  elementary  grades. 
Only  enough  physiography  is  included  to  develop  the  funda- 
mental relations  of  geography,  and  to  animate  and  freshen  the 
study,  without  overloading  it  in  this  direction. 
^  The  physical  maps  of  the  grand  divi";ions  arc  drawn  to  the 
same  scale,  thus  enabling  the  pupil  to  form  correct  concepts 
of  the  relative  size  of  countries.  Tiie  political  and  more  de- 
tailed maps  are  not  mere  skeletons,  giving  only  the  names 
which  are  required  by  the  text,  but  are  full  enough  to  serve 
all  ordinary  purposes  for  reference.  In  addition,  they  show 
the  principal  railroads  and  canals,  the  head  of  navigation  on 
all  important  rivers,  and  the  standard  divisions  of  time. 
^  The  illust\ations  are  new  and  fresh,  reproduced  mosdy 
from  photographs  collected  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
Formal  map  studies  or  questions  accompany  each  map,  direct- 
ing attention  to  the  most  important  features. 


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NEW   ROLFE  SHAKESPEARE 

Edited  In-  WILLIAM   j.    ROLFK,   Litt.D. 
40   volumes,  each,   50.56 


THE  popularity  ot'Roltc's  Shakespeare  has  been  extraor- 
dinary.     Since  its  first  publication  in    1870-83  it  has 
been  used  more  widely,  both  in  schools  and  colleges,  and 
by  the  general  reading  public,  than  any  similar  edition  ever 
issued.       It    is    to-day    the    standard    annotated    edition    of 
Shakespeare  for  educational  purposes. 

^1  As  teacher  and  lecturer  Dr.  Rolfe  has  been  constantly  in 
touch  with  the  recent  notable  advances  made  in  Shakespearian 
investigation  and  criticism  ;  and  this  revised  edition  he  has 
carefully  adjusted  to  present  conditions. 

^[  The  introductions  and  appendices  have  been  entirely  re- 
written, and  now  contain  the  history  of  the  plays  and  poems  ; 
an  account  of  the  sources  of  the  plots,  with  copious  extracts 
from  the  chronicles  and  novels  from  which  the  poet  drew 
his  material;  and  general  comments  by  the  editor,  with 
selections  from  the  best  English  and  foreign  criticism. 
^[  The  notes  are  very  full,  and  include  all  the  historical, 
critical,  and  illustrative  material  needed  by  the  teacher,  as  well 
as  by  the  student,  and  general  reader.  Special  features  in  the 
notes  are  the  extent  to  which  Shakespeare  is  made  to  explain 
himself  bv  parallel  passages  from  his  works;  the  frequent  Bible 
illustrations;  the  full  explanations  of  allusions  to  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  period ;  and  descriptions  of  the  localities 
connected  with  the  poet's  life  and  works.  Attention  is  given 
to  Shakespeare's  grammar  and  metre,  and  to  textual  varia- 
tions when  these  are  of  unusual  importance  and  interest. 
•|[  New  notes  have  also  been  substituted  for  those  referring 
to  other  volumes  of  the  edition,  so  that  each  volurr.e  is  now 
absolutely  complete  in  itself.  The  pictorial  illustrations  are 
all  new,  those  retained  from  the  old  edition  being  re-engraved. 
The  form  of  the  books  has  also  been  modified,  the  page  being 
made  smaller  to  adjust  them  to  pocket  use. 


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CHOICE    LITERATURE 

By  SHERMAN  WILLIAMS,   Ph.D.,  New  York 
State  Institute   Conductor 


Book  One,  for  Primary  Grades $o.%z 

Book  Two,  for  Primary  Grades 25 

Book  One,  for  Intermediate  Grades 28 

Book  Two,  for  Intermediate  Grades 35 

Book  One,  foi  Grammar  Grades  ...........        .40 

Book  Two,  for  Grammar  Grades  ...........       .  ^o 


ALTHOUGH    these    books   can    be    used    to    excellent 
^  advantage  in  teaching  children  how  to  read,  the  main 
purpose  of  the  series  is  to  teach  them  what  to  read; 
to  create  and  foster  a  taste  for  good  literature.    The  selections 
are  carefolly  made  and  graded. 

^  The  books  for  the  primary  grades  include  selecdons  from 
the  Mother  Goose  Melodies,  nursery  classics,  fairy  stories  from 
Hans  Chrisdan  Andersen,  and  the  Grimm  brothers,  <Esop's 
Fables,  memory  gems,  children's  poems  by  such  w  iters  as 
Stevenson,  Alice  Gary,  Tennyson,  Lydia  Maria  Child, 
Cecilia  Thaxter,  and  a  few  prose  selections  among  which 
Ruskin's  King  of  the  Golden  River  is  given  complete. 
^  In  the  books  for  intermediate  grades  the  reading  matter  is 
more  advanced.  Here  are  given  such  delightful  selections  as 
Aladdin,  Pandora,  The  Sunken  Treasure,  Wonder  Book, 
Tanglewood  Tales,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  The  Barefoot  Boy,  A 
Visit  from  St.  Nicholas,  Children  in  the  Wood,  The  Last  of 
the  Mohicans,  Tom  Brown's  School  Days,  etc. 
^  The  volumes  for  the  grammar  grades  are  made  up  of 
the  best  English  and  American  literature.  Among  the  emi- 
nent writers  represented  are  Scott,  Dickens,  George  Eliot, 
Irving,  Addison,  Patrick  Henry,  Lamb,  Lincoln,  Webster, 
Bryant,  Burns,  Goldsmith,  Tennyson,  Newman,  Poe,  Shake- 
speare, Coleridge,  Gray,  Macaulay,  Holmes,  Longfellow, 
Lowell,  Milton,  Whittier,  and  Byron. 


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(JRADKD     WORK     IN 
ARITHME1  IC 

H\     S.  \y .     HAIRD,    Principal,    Franklin    Cirammar 
School,  W'ilkcsbarre,    Pa. 


^i^^t  \e.\r Boards,  So.  1 8  Cloth,  $o.ao 

Second  Vf.ii "             .18  "  .20 

Third  Year "             .20  "  .25 

Fourth  Yt-ai "             .20  "  .25 

Fifth  Yrar "            .20  "  .25 

Sixtli  Year '♦  .25 

Seventh  Year ♦*  .25 

Eighth  Year "  .25 

Practical  Arithmetic  for  Grammar  Grades "  .65 


THIS  series  consists  of  eight  books  designed  for  use  in 
all  the  grades  of  elementary  schools.  It  furnishes  to 
pupils  text-books  carefully  planned  to  strengthen  their 
powers  of  mathematical  reasoning,  at  the  same  time  presenting 
a  range  of  topics  sufficiently  comprehensive  to  familiarize  them 
with  the  important  practical  applications  of  the  science  to  the 
wants  of  common  life.  The  Practical  Arithmetic,  with  the 
first  four  books,  forms  a  five-book  series. 
^[  The  books  abound  in  combinations  of  oral  and  written 
work,  and  in  copious  examples  for  drills  and  reviews.  Each 
subject  is  treated  both  pedagogically  and  mathematically. 
Common  sense  and  the  keen  logic  of  the  mathematician  are 
shown  on  every  page.  Each  book  begins  with  a  review  ot 
the  essential  principles  studied  in  the  previous  book.  The 
subjects  are  taken  up  alternatelv,  in  accordance  with  the  ability 
of  the  child,  and  not  as  complete  wholes. 
^y  Great  care  has  been  taken  in  the  selection  of  illustrative 
examples  and  operations.  Explanations  and  analyses  have 
been  given  in  full,  in  order  that  the  principles  involved  may 
be  easily  and  clearly  understood  by  the  pupil. 


AMERICAN     BOOK     COMPANY 


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UNITED  STATES  HISTORIES 

By  JOHN   BACH   McMASTER,    Professor  of  American 
History,   University   of  Pennsylvania 


Primary  History,  ^0.60       School  History,  $1.00       Brief  History,  $1.00 


THESE  standard  histories  are  remarkable  for  their 
freshness  and  vigor,  their  authoritative  statements, 
and  their  impartial  treatment.  They  give  a  well- 
proportioned  and  interesting  narrative  of  the  chief  events 
in  our  history,  and  are  not  loaded  down  with  extended 
and  unnecessary  bibliographies.  The  illustrations  are  his- 
torically authendc,  and  show,  besides  well-known  scenes 
and  incidents,  the  implements  and  dress  characteristic  of  the 
various  periods.  The  maps  are  clear  and  full,  and  well 
executed. 

^  The  PRIMARY  HISTORY  is  simply  and  interestingly 
written,  with  no  long  or  involved  sentences.  Although  brief, 
it  touches  upon  all  matters  of  real  importance  to  schools  in 
the  founding  and  building  of  our  country,  but  copies  beyond 
the  understanding  of  children  are  omitted.  The  summaries 
at  the  end  of  the  chapters,  besides  serving  to  emphasize  the 
chief  events,  are  valuable  for  review. 

^  In  the  SCHOOL  HISTORY  by  far  the  larger  part  of 
the  book  has  been  devoted  to  the  history  of  the  United  States 
since  1783.  From  the  beginning  the  attention  of  the  student 
is  directed  to  causes  and  results  rather  than  to  isolated  events. 
Special  prominence  is  given  to  the  social  and  economic 
development  of  the  country. 

^  In  the  BRIEF  HISTORY  nearly  one-half  the  book 
is  devoted  to  the  colonial  period.  The  text  proper,  while 
brief,  is  complete  in  itself;  and  footnotes  in  smaller  type 
permit  of  a  more  comprehensive  course  if  desired.  Short 
summaries,  and  suggestions  for  collateral  reading,  are  provided. 


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CAR  IMsN  ri^R  S     R  I'ADl^RS 

Wv    FRANK   (;.    CARI'KNTRR 


(;i.()(;r.\1'H1cai,    rkadkrs 

Africa    ....   ;^o.6o 
Australia,    Our  Colonies, 
and  Other  Islands  of  the 
Sea     .  .  .  .        .60 

RKADF.RS  ON  COMMERCE  AND  INDUSTRY 
How  the  World  is  Fed       .    3o.6o      I     How   the  World  is  Clothed    $0.60 


North    Aiiu-rit.1  .  .  $0.60 

South  America  .  .  .60 

Europe    .            .  .  .  .70 

Asia        .           .  .  .  .60 


(CARPENTER'S  Gcographital  Readers  supplement  the 
>i  regular  text-books  on  the  subject,  giving  life  and  interest 
to  the  study.  They  are  intensely  absorbing,  being 
written  by  the  author  on  the  spots  described,  and  presenting 
an  accurate  pen-picture  oi  places  and  peoples.  The  style  is 
simple  and  easy,  and  throughout  each  volume  there  runs  a 
strong  personal  note  which  makes  the  reader  feel  that  he  is 
actually  seeing  everything  with  his  own  eyes. 
^;  The  books  give  a  good  idea  ot  the  various  peoples,  their 
strange  customs  and  ways  of  living,  and  to  some  extent  of  their 
economic  condition.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  included  a 
graphic  description  of  the  curious  animals,  rare  birds,  wonder- 
ful physical  features,  natural  resources,  and  great  industries  of 
each  country.  The  illustrations  for  the  most  part  are  repro- 
ductions of  photographs  taken  by  the  author.  The  maps  show 
the  route  taken  over  each  continent. 

^]  The  Readers  on  Commerce  and  Industry  give  a  personal 
and  living  knowledge  of  the  great  world  of  commerce  and 
industry.  The  children  visit  the  great  food  centers  and  see 
for  themselves  how  the  chief  food  staples  are  produced  and 
prepared  for  use,  and  they  travel  in  the  same  way  over  the 
globe  investigating  the  sources  of  their  clothing.  The  journeys 
are  along  geographical  lines,  and  while  studying  the  industries 
the  children  are  learning  about  localities,  trade  routes,  and  the 
other  features  of  transportation  and  commerce. 


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